Through a Mirror Darkly: A Reflection
by elbowface
Summary: ST:ENTERPRISE BABYLON 5 CROSSOVER. The Terran Empire invades B5verse. This story will be updated –and I use this word carefully: occasionally.
1. Chapter 1

**Through a Mirror Darkly: A Reflection **

Rated PG – 13

Category : Cross-Over, ST:Enterprise and Babylon 5

---------------------COPYRIGHT/DISCLAIMER NOTICE-----------

"_Star trek: Enterprise" _and all related_ Star Trek_ related material, its characters and certain technological devices and/or references to such from the television shows may be or are registered trademarks of, and may be or are copyrighted by Paramount Studios and whatever Corporation it may or may not be owned by.

"_Babylon Five_", its characters, certain technological devices and/or references to such, from the television show, past present of near future, may be or are registered trademarks of, _Babylon 5_, characters, names, and all related indicia are trademarks of Time Warner Entertainment Co., LP.

Please do not sue. I own nothing.

**Chapter 1**

"Hull Impact! Forward bay, second level!"

"Full reverse. Seal off that section and dispatch repair crews," Alyt Ullor ordered tersely.

"Are there any other Earther ships in the area?" Ullor demanded.

"None, Alyt. Those cowards left no one behind to give honorable combat," Rii Ebak, his first officer, growled. "Reports coming in: a forward conduit ruptured. One dead, six more injured…." As she studied her console, her expression darkened even further. "No survivors from the Liandra."

"All stop." Alyt Ullor cursed the human terrorists. His Tenashi-class frigate, _Shield of Faith_, and her escort _Liandra_-class gunship had intercepted a distress call from a pair of Earth Alliance freighters that had allegedly been adrift after an ion storm – their jump engines had failed, their ion engines damaged.

His first, Rii Ebak, had warned him it might be a trick, similar to the one that Sheridan the Starkiller had used to murder the _Drala Fi._ She had warned him, but he had failed to listen. After all, the distress call had come from civilian ships, not military vessels. He could not simply abandon those helpless ships, human or not, to the void of space.

It was universal interstellar courtesy to rescue stranded passengers and crew. Surely, even the humans would recognize that…

And now his crew had paid the price for his miscalculation, and another Minbari vessel had been lost with all hands.

"My fault. All my fault," Ullor muttered bitterly.

"It was **not** your fault, Alyt!" Rii Ebak announced loudly – more for the benefit of the young bridge crew than her Alyt. _A commander who loses the confidence of his crew is deadly in wartime._ "You were responding to a distress call from unarmed, unescorted freighters with life signs onboard. You could not have known that they would detonate their fusion reactors like that at the last moment!"

Ullor shook his head glumly. "It is bad enough that their military make collision runs against our ships. Now they're using civilian vessels as suicide bombers! What is this war coming to, my friend?"

The quick victory the Gray Council had promised failed to materialize. While casualties were statistically light, public enthusiasm for the war waned as the conflict dragged on – and on, and on, and on, **and on.**

The change in human tactics did not help matters, as the humans shut down jump gates leading to every system the Minbari entered, slowing their advance.

And while the Warrior Caste continued to score victories, the humans were now denying direct combat to Minbari ships whenever they could. Instead, they now melted away into hyperspace whenever a Minbari fleet arrived in force, only to launch fierce counter-attacks later at isolated weak points in small groups, like ancient cavalry.

Such tactics would have been more effective if the Earthers had better ships, but they were still taking a toll on Minbari morale. Even in areas that were supposedly "pacified," the humans harassed Minbari patrol vessels with crude proximity mines, and Minbari ground warriors were savaged by suicide "people bombs" and various "IED's" (improvised explosive devices) that seemed to kill at random.

The Minbari Grand Fleet was still the mightiest war machine of the Younger Races, but it simply wasn't trained to fight this kind of enemy.

"The humans are a depraved species of fanatics and terrorists," Ebak spat bitterly. "We have known this since they murdered Dukhat in their cowardly terrorist attack."

Ullor nodded numbly – it was a date that would live in infamy. "I will report this incident to Shai Alyt Branmer. We cannot allow the humans to repeat this ploy elsewhere." No Minbari vessel would **ever** repeat the mistake of trying to assist another human ship again. "Ship status?"

"Jump engines are online," his operations officer reported. "The hull damage was nominal. Stealth and Gravitic fields functioning at full capacity, weapons availability at 92 percent. The main blast missed our drive fins completely."

"Very well. We will conduct repairs en-route." Alyt Ullor was anxious to get underway. Minbari long-range listening posts had detected anomalous readings in the Vor'ala system.

Ullor dearly hoped it turned out to be nothing, though that did nothing to settle his lingering dread. _Was it the humans? If so, what have they done now?_

**0000000000000000**

He had never considered himself to be an especially great soldier, yet here he was – a "lowly" Vulcan – and captain of an Imperial Battle Cruiser.

With the decommissioning of his previous NX-class ship following the Romulan War, Skon had only recently been promoted to Captain and received command of the _ISS George W. Bush_, named after one of Earth's greatest leaders.

_At least by human standards._ Apparently, the ship's namesake had assassinated his father to assume the Presidency of the United States and then conquered the United Islamic Republic in the early 21st Century….

As his mind wandered in the lift, Captain Skon was still puzzled by his curious elevation to this rank and the Admiral's cryptic new orders. The _George W. Bush_ was a newer vessel, a Daedalus-class warship. As an engineer himself, he grudgingly acknowledged the lethal elegance of its design, a mass-produced copy of the powerful, multi-hulled configuration of Empress Sato's flagship, the re-christened _ISS Imperator_.

While the new Daedalus ships weren't nearly as powerful as the Imperator, they represented a gigantic improvement in Imperial design.

The engineering section was a cylinder six decks tall, which housed the ships heavy engineering equipment - the warp core, structural integrity and inertial damper field generator systems, shield generators, hangar bays, impulse drive. This hull was connected by a two-deck neck to a spherical primary hull, which housed the ship's main weapons, control areas, and crew provisions.

The new "phaser banks" were crushingly superior to the old phase cannons and field lasers, and the new deflector shields had three times the heat dissipation rate of polarized hull armor.

Even the crew accommodations where much improved compared to the old designs. The senior officers all had individual rooms, while enlisted personnel had barracks-style accommodations. Considering that previous Imperial Starfleet vessels slept everybody below the rank of Lieutenant Commander in hammocks hung wherever there was room, the Daedalus ships represented a quantum leap in luxury.

_So why choose a Vulcan to command one? _

Granted, the previous captain had fallen victim to one of Empress Sato's numerous political purges – and the list of qualified senior officers was already thin after losses sustained during the Rebellion and the Romulan War – but an Imperial ship under the command of a non-human was exceedingly rare.

A warship under the command of a non-human was unheard of.

To complicate matters further, Starfleet Command had placed him in charge instead of promoting the first officer, Commander Rick Berman. Unlike Captain Skon – an alien auxiliary who emerged from the engineering ranks – Commander Berman was a human from a prominent family on Mars, which explained his high rank.

However, his incompetence was also considerable, which _perhaps_ explained Skon's placement on the ship over him…

But it also meant that Captain Skon needed to watch his back.

Entering the bridge, Berman remained seated in the bridge's command chair, lingering a few seconds longer than appropriate, before rising to acknowledge his captain. Skon supposed that Berman could have invented a more obvious insult, but one didn't spring readily to mind.

As the lift hissed shut behind him, Skon said, "Pilot, change course to Sector 12, the Cochran system, maximum warp."

Berman, Skon noted, did not step away from the command chair. "Sir, we've been assigned to patrol this sector for the next three weeks. The insurgents are still a threat."

_As if I did not know_. "We have new orders."

Berman's jaw tightened. "No communications have arrived from Starfleet Command."

This was, strictly speaking, true. The encrypted message from Admiral Archibald Paris came on a tight-beam subspace carrier wave that bypassed the Bush's communication system and went straight to Captain Skon's quarters.

_Sometimes, an admiral needs to communicate with his commanders privately._ There was no telling how many members of the bridge crew were paid moles for other rival admirals or senators.

Ignoring his first officer's objections, Captain Skon turned to his helmsman. "Is the course laid in?"

"Yes sir."

"Very well. Make it …"

"Belay that!" Berman snarled.

Skon's eyebrow twitched a centimeter – the equivalent of a Vulcan frown. _I should have known._ "Helm, execute at maximum warp, or your next station will be inside the Booth," Skon warned evenly. Although a recent innovation, the Booth was quickly becoming legendary for quelling insubordinate crew members.

Turning to Berman, Skon then replied, "That applies to you as well, Commander."

Berman practically shook with rage, his face assuming an interesting hue of pink and purple. "We've received no change in our orders!"

"**We** have not. **I **have," Skon corrected coldly. "This is official Starfleet business under orders from Sector Command, coming directly from Admiral Paris. This supercedes **any** authority, save that of Starfleet Headquarters or the Empress herself."

To Skon's satisfaction, the helmsman engaged warp drive as soon as Skon mentioned Admiral Paris.

Whereupon Berman unsheathed his phase pistol –

Before getting cut down by EM rifle blast from behind, his body crumpling to the floor in a heavy lump.

"Thank you, Corporal Becerra. Please escort _Mr._ Berman to the Booth." It was within Starfleet Regulations to have Berman executed immediately, but Skon opted not to for the moment – Berman's family was well-connected and might try to avenge his death.

Besides, Skon himself had never actually seen the booth in action, and he was curious to test it's effectiveness. _And it would be illogical to execute an able-bodied crewman._ No, better to reduce him in rank and sentence him to serve out the remainder of the tour toiling in the engineering compartment.

And if anything happened to Berman down there….well, accidents happened all the time.

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The Second Officer – now the First Officer, Lt. Robert April – grinned widely. "You've done a great service for this vessel today, Captain," he replied in his cheery Welsh accent. Commander Berman's fondness for flogging - even for trivial infractions - had not made him a beloved figure with the crew.

"I did nothing Mr. Berman did not bring upon himself," Skon said dismissively as he looked out at the distorted star field outside his quarters as the ship – his ship – cruised at warp. "How long until we reach the Cochran system?"

"Another 37 hours, sir."

"Speak with Engineering about increasing engine efficiency. I want us at that star system as soon as possible."

"Sir. May I ask what our new mission is?"

"We are going into action to preserve the Empire from it's enemies, Lt. Commander," Skon replied, making it clear that an elevation in rank would accompany his elevation in position, prompting a grin from April. "You'll know when the time is right. Dismissed."

Skon lingered alone in his quarters. He thought about meditating, but was far too agitated to concentrate clearly at the moment. In truth, even _he_ wasn't sure why they were being sent to the Cochran system either…

_Speculation is pointless. Far_ _more logical to concentrate on factors within my control._

He earnestly hoped that his promotion of Lt. Commander April would not turn out to be a mistake. Although the skinny, pallid officer was extremely young, he had proven eager and highly competent – _and the least likely amongst the senior officers to kill me in my sleep._

Even if he did, April was far too junior to command a warship, no matter the personnel crunch. Without any notable political sponsors to back him, it would only be a matter of time before Starfleet appointed someone else, even if he did take command. Mr. April was an astute officer – he had to know that. _Did he not?_

Nonetheless, Captain Skon slept with a paid MACO guard at his door and a fully charged phase pistol beneath his pillow that night, as he always did.

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Vice Admiral Paris watched the yawning hole in space with undisguised interest. "A passageway to another universe," he remarked with awe. In truth, he had never expected the trans-dimensional experiment to work.

However, after the treasure trove of shield and weapons technology gained from the extra-dimensional vessel taken from the Tholians, Empress Sato had appropriated lavish resources devoted to duplicating that experiment, using what data her extra-dimensional flagship had on the transition as a starting point.

"You doubted my ability?" Dr. Ling En-lai sneered, bristling at the denigration of her competency. "The quantum imprint from our probe telemetry proves it. The quantum signature of the space on the other side is out of synchronicity with our space."

"I doubted the ability of the Research Section to produce something that actually functions," Paris corrected. Starfleet was military organization, not a flock of stargazers: results mattered. "If this works, you'll get all the funding you ever need."

"Of course it works!" Ling snapped, eyes blazing. "We've sent two probes already."

"If I recall the technical briefing correctly, the Tholians created their rift on accident and were never able to duplicate their success," he said pointedly. "Even then, the only ship that ever made the transition got the hell torn out of it."

Dr. Ling lifted her chin defiantly. "The data we retrieved from the ship that crossed the rift gave us a big head start. If those overgrown grasshoppers hadn't been so eager to strip the ship for parts, they could have retrieved that data themselves." Her glossy lips twisted in a triumphant smile. "As it is, **I **was able to isolate the precise frequency at which to detonate a quantum singularity charge to open a rift of our own. We made the charge a big one, to ensure that **this** rift would be more stable."

Paris shrugged noncommittally. "We'll see. The real proof will be sending a canary down the coal mine," Paris observed mildly, his hazel eyes flickering with amusement. Ling's fiery temper didn't bother him at all; it made her more explosive in bed.

An annoyed voice interrupted their verbal foreplay. "Are you sure the canaries you're sending are up to the task?" Lt. General Georges Emile Picard grumbled. With his curly, dark brown locks closely trimmed, nothing obscured his scowling glare. "There are certainly plenty of other candidates to choose from," he said, gesturing toward the window at the 40-ship assault fleet Admiral Paris was gathering.

Paris grinned. It wasn't the craft that concerned Picard. "The _George Bush_ is one of the new Daedalus boats, like every ship assembled here. Ship for ship, only Empress Sato's flagship has more firepower than them." He specifically hand-picked the Bush for this mission; he wanted his theory on incorporation to be proven _right._

"It's your ill-advised choice of personnel that concerns me," Picard replied, scratching the imaginary itch on his prosthetic leg. He had lost it to a Romulan plasma mortar during the Ursula Minor Campaign. "After the Rebellion, why would you trust _Vulcans_ aboard your ships? And promoting a Vulcan to Captain?" He shook his head in disgust. "_Tabernac!_ They're nothing more than antiseptic Romulans! They would slit our throats at the first chance."

Admiral Paris sighed. He grew tired of rehashing the same arguments with knuckle-dragging tartars like General Picard. "Our manpower is stretched thin as it is. Suppressing the Rebellion and securing Romulus only solved our immediate problems. Nausican insurgents are still harassing the peripheral shipping lanes, the Tholians are still sparring with our border patrols, and don't even get me started on the Klingons."

The Admiralty had considered it a minor miracle they hadn't intervened during the Romulan War. **_No one_** expected the shaky truce with the Klingons to last much longer.

"Fully integrating the MACOs into ships operations would solve the problem," Picard insisted stridently.

Like many marine officers, Picard chaffed at the way Starfleeters treated them like glorified hall monitors and mindless thugs. After all, it was the MACOs and their pure, **all human** ranks that won the war – not Starfleet with their expensive barges and pleasure yachts.

Admiral Paris smiled back at General Picard with icy contempt. "MACOs are suited for their security roles and tactical operations. However, I've found they lack the…subtle technical expertise necessary to maintain more complex starship functions. In the absence of trained Terren personnel, the Vulcans are the only client species with both the education and the temperament to serve our needs."

Like many naval officers, Paris was convinced his marine counterparts would blow their brains out if they farted. Besides, fully incorporating MACOs into general ships functions might boost the prestige of the MACO Generals at the expense of the Admiralty, and that was not something Starfleet would allow.

Picard shook with rage. "Are you saying we're inferior to a pack of treasonous aliens?"

Paris' polite, plastic smile never wavered. "I'm **saying **that if the Rebellion has taught us anything, it's that we could use a partner to make the Empire function better. For all their defects, the Vulcans have always been technically proficient. Their devotion to logic is a lever we can use to enlist their cooperation."

"And the next time they rebel, you can always sacrifice another 500,000 MACOs to subdue them," Picard sneered. "How convenient."

"They won't rebel again," Paris insisted. "Not after the pasting they just took. If I read their psychology right, their remaining numbers will see the logic of cooperating with the Empire instead of raging against it – if we give them a stake in the system. Throwing in their lot with the Andorians and Tellarites would then look a lot less palatable to them, and make the Empire easier to govern."

This was the kind of divide-and-rule thinking that Admiral Paris had advocated for years. Command officers like Admiral Paris, the late Admiral Black, and the late Captain Forrest were the first generation of Imperial Starfleet officers to truly embrace it.

However, such enlightened Starfleet thinking contrasted sharply with their conservative colleagues of the Military Assault Command Operations (MACO), who stubbornly insisted on preserving "the integrity of the service."

Picard twisted his lips in disgust at Paris' explanation. "You even **sound** like one of those pointy-eared devils…."

Rolling her eyes, Ling quietly excused herself and slipped away, pointedly ignoring Picard's covetous glances.

_Men. _

_Why can't they just take off their pants and measure which one is bigger? _

_It would save time._

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	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

Warning: i don't usually update this fast.

between my commitment to another long-running project and the demands of real life, i'm stretched pretty thin. and unlike albertg of "atv" (which i highly recommend!), i do not have a staff of assistants to supplement my efforts, so it may be awhile before i update this again.

However, rest assured: i **do** intend to continue this; i **do** have a longer plot arc in mind...it just might take me awhile!

To all those who reviewed: thanks so much -- you totally inspired me to keep going with this. Enjoy!!

**Chapter 2**

"Our mission is to scout the territory, exploring nearby systems for advanced technical civilizations," Skon concluded.

The baffled eyes of his senior staff blinked in unison.

"Another universe?" Lt. Commander April chuckled. "Sounds like science fiction. Did we run out of enemies to fight here?"

"Our purpose is reconnaissance, not combat," Skon clarified. "We are to identify and observe only, if possible."

"But isn't this a little drastic?" inquired Lieutenant Aneesh Patel, the chief engineer. "We've only claimed a tiny fraction of our galaxy in _this_ dimension. Why go to the trouble of invading another?"

"Starfleet Command believes this alternate dimension may contain technologies of use to the Empire," Skon explained patiently. "I reiterate: we are searching for advanced _technology_, not natural resources."

"But what reason does Starfleet have for believing this?" asked Major Patrice Mbuto sullenly. Of course, MACO tactical officers were always sullen. "Has some invasion force from the other side violated our territory?"

Skon briefly wondered if the connection between moodiness and menstruation amongst human females were true. "We will be the first ship to pass through the quantum gateway. Beyond this, I have been given no further information," Skon said truthfully.

He had little doubt Starfleet Command knew more than they were telling him, but he knew better than to ask. "In addition to explaining our mission, I have one more announcement. As of now, I am permanently amending the traditional bonus split for all future missions."

That captured everyone's attention.

Amongst the Imperial Starfleet, the "bonus split" was the proportion of the loot distributed to the crew on profitable missions.

Traditionally, the ship's captain received 40 percent of any plunder, the senior officers split the other 40 percent (divied up at the captain's discretion), while the remaining 20 percent was split amongst the rest of the crew according to rank and seniority.

Thus, a 40-40-20 split of the spoils; after the General Staff received its cut, of course.

Noting the mix of anxious and murderous looks now leveled in his direction, Skon quickly explained. "This change will not affect the senior officers."

The unspoken tension in the room subsided. "Instead, I will be reducing the Captain's share to 10 percent, with the balance transferred to the crew at large. I will announce this change on ship-wide intercom at the conclusion of this meeting."

"That's…that's rather generous of you, Captain," his comm. officer, Lieutenant Junior Grade (JG) Inge Hussein, said carefully.

Her delicate features knit in a frown. In the Imperial Starfleet, comm. officers were often counted as senior officers for pay purposes, regardless of rank. "But if you wanted to redistribute the wealth, perhaps some of that could go to the **senior** staff." While clearly relieved to not lose anything, she was also miffed at being excluded from the Captain's unexpected largesse.

"This entire meeting is strictly informational," Skon said flatly. "Your suggestions are not required. The order is given. Dismissed."

Generosity had nothing to do with Skon's decision; he was buying something with that money.

At best, most of his crew was ambivalent to having a Vulcan captain; a few were outright hostile – Major Mbuto still eyed him as if he were some exotic, dangerous beast.

Not only did Skon hope to purchase some goodwill amongst the crew, he also sought to eliminate any _economic_ motivation his senior officers might have to assassinate him. By reducing the captain's share to "only" 10 percent, Skon ensured it was no longer financially worthwhile for a senior officer to kill him for his command.

Nor could that usurper simply restore the captain's 40 percent by taking it back from the crew: he or she would spark a mutiny if they did.

In any event, a 10 percent share of future spoils was sufficient for Skon. While he was chief engineer aboard _Columbia_, Skon witnessed how quickly Captain Hernandez had amassed a small fortune after sacking the Romulan Provincial Treasury on Chaltok.

Besides, all Skon really needed was enough to provide for his mate T'Lara and their baby son Sarik…

_No, not a baby anymore_, Skon amended. He had not seen his son in several years – he would be nearly old enough to attend first form soon.

_No matter._ Skon was determined to provide the best possible life for his son and to ensure that the Empire **his son** grew up in would provide Sarik with more opportunities than it did for himself.

For that, Skon would fight any battle, bear any degradation – not only for his own son, but for all the sons and daughters of Vulcan.

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"Remarkable."

Rii Ebak didn't respond to Alyt Ullor's observation, instead peering over the shoulder of the sensor officer. "According to these readings, the event horizon is similar to a jump point in the process of opening."

Ullor frowned, tearing his eyes from the large, cloudy "hole" in space and turned towards his first. "What do you mean, 'in the process' of forming?" he inquired.

Opening up a jump point required a huge amount of energy, which only a fairly rare and expensive element, Quantium-40, could provide – and even then, even the largest starships could not keep one open for more than thirty seconds or so at a time.

"I cannot explain it, Alyt. I am not detecting any other ships in the area, and no ship could possibly keep a jump point open for so long – if it is a jump point," Ebak added skeptically.

"But if its not a jump point, then what is it?" Ullor asked.

"Scans are inconclusive."

Ullor nodded slowly. "Then it is a naturally occurring phenomenon," he pronounced, coming to a decision. "Drop a locator beacon and inform fleet command. Let the Worker Caste dispatch a survey ship, if they want to play with it."

"Alyt, Rii," yelled a very excited young crewman. "Something is coming out of the event horizon!"

"Show me," Alyt Ullor ordered.

A holographic display shimmered into place in the middle of the command center, revealing a small alien ship emerging the faux-jump point.

Its design looked totally alien: a small sphere, connected to a thick cylinder and two more, thinner cylinders connected to that. The gray hull outlined an oddly elegant shape, which seemed grounded along the lines of basic geometry: circles, spheres, rectangles, and variations thereof, organized in discrete patterns.

It looked almost too delicate to survive the rigors of space travel.

"What manner of ship is that?" Ullor asked – as much to himself as to his bridge crew. The alien vessel was barely larger than a gunboat or a short-range passenger vessel. It was certainly too small to contain it's own jump engine.

"There's no record of any comparable vessel in the database," his sensor officer replied.

Alyt Ullor nodded knowingly. "Very well. Initiate First Contact procedures. Hail them on all tachyon frequencies. Open all gun ports in ceremonial salute…"

"I'm detecting a faint energy flux throughout the hull," warned the weapons officer. "I believe it's coming from the unknown vessel."

Alyt Ullor knotted his hairless brows in concern. "Are they trying to communicate with us?"

"It's certainly too weak to be any sort of attack," Ebak commented. As she reviewed the incoming data, her eyes kinked to a concerned frown. "In Valen's honor…I've never seen energy readings that high on a ship so small."

"Alyt, I've got something!" the young bridge officer – _very_ young, by the crack in his voice – called out. "I've identified markings on the alien's hull…_Earther script_!"

The color drained from Ullor's face. _SUICIDE BOMBERS!!_ "Activate the stealth field!! Charge forward guns. Hurry, before they ram us!"

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Captain Skon gripped his chair hard as the starship shook violently under the alien's assault. An EPS conduit blew, spraying sparks. "Red alert, evasive maneuvers."

"Yes, sir!" The order was hardly necessary, as the helm officer had automatically increased speed as her fingers flew over the controls, sending the _George Bush_ into a corkscrew motion to evade enemy fire.

In fact, the entire bridge crew automatically sprang into their combat roles with the precision of machines. Endless hours of battle drills and years of combat experience took over, executing their training flawlessly.

"Forward shields at 62 percent!" April sang out.

Skon didn't bother acknowledging. "Major Mbuto, target their weapons and fire."

Mbuto frowned over her tactical console – the first complication of the battle. "I'm having difficulties keeping a lock. They have some kind of scrambling field."

Skon whirled around, raising a startled eyebrow. "Major, that ship must be almost 1000 meters long."

Mbuto grimaced as the sketchy, wire-frame image of the alien ship jumped and skittered on her sensor display like a bug on a hot plate. "They seem to be employing some kind of scattering field that's baffling the sensors. I could try visual targeting, but we would have to get within 5,000 meters for any accuracy."

Skon tightened his jaw – fighting that monstrous vessel at close range would be highly undesirable.

"Captain, I've got it!" Lt. Commander April cried excitedly. "I'm detecting the ship's wake! Major, re-calibrate your targeting sensors to this frequency: lock on to their gravity wells."

Relieved, Skon settled back into his command chair and plotted the most effective assault vector. "Helm, come about to heading 314 mark 205. Arm photonic torpedoes, transfer auxiliary power to forward phaser banks. Fire as she bears, attack pattern Sierra."

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Ullor was shocked when the first neutron beam failed to destroy the human ship.

He was frustrated when the second beam barely grazed it.

He was terrified when the third beam missed completely.

"Is the targeting computer malfunctioning?" he demanded urgently.

"Alyt, the enemy ship is moving too fast…our targeting computers can't keep up!"

Ebak swore, her teeth grinding. The targeting systems that were the finest of the Young Races, that had protected Minbari Federation for over a thousand years, were suddenly too slow. "Recommend we use our light fusion beams and pulse guns to bracket their vessel, Alyt."

Alyt Ullor nodded, cursing the _pelok_-pinching tightwads of the Worker and Religious Castes who had starved the Warriors of research funding, who _insisted_ that current defense systems were "adequate." After all, if they were good enough for the last war, certainly they were good enough for this one.

_And now we will bleed for that arrogance._ "Switch to manual targeting. Transfer main weapons power to secondary batteries." They weren't as powerful as the main cannons, but they had quicker recharge times and better aim-response against smaller, quicker targets like fighters and corvette-gunboats.

Then, the Earther vessel did something completely unexpected.

Instead of trying to ram them or launch a two-dimensional attack, the human ship suddenly accelerated violently, climbing upward on its _z-axis_, pirouetted like a Temple ballerina, and then dove toward the Minbari vessel directly beneath it at an insane angle….

_Valen's name…we don't have any heavy guns protecting that quarter!_ "FLANK SPEED, RIGHT FULL RUDDER!!!" Ullor shrieked.

It was too late.

Angry red phaser beams and photonic torpedoes strafed the dorsal side of the Minbari vessel in an alternating pattern, pulverizing the gravimetric defense grid and melting polycrystalline armor to slag.

As the _George W Bush_ dove past it's victim, a brilliant explosion aboard the _Shield of Faith_ illuminated it's sleek lines as it came about for another pass…

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The explosion rocked the Minbari ship, throwing Rii Ebak into Alyt Ullor's arms...

And for a terrifying moment, the command center became pitch black – before emergency lighting activated, bathing the crew in dull, purple light.

An hysterical young warrior cried out, "Our stealth has failed! We're doomed, helpless, HELPLESS!!!"

Rii Ebak swiftly regained her footing, crossed the bride, and knocked him unconscious. "Damage report!" she demanded, calmly resuming her first officer duties.

For all the trauma of this day, Alyt Ullor could barely suppress a smile, yet again thanking the universe for granting him such a capable officer and steadfast friend. "You heard her! Engineering, report dam…"

Ullor immediately broke off when he saw the bridge engineering officer: slumped over his station, with his head twisted at a grotesque angle, the bone protruding from his neck.

Following Rii Ebak's brave example, an intrepid young…_Worker Caste tech?._..pushed the dead officer from the console and assumed his station. Her thin, trembling voice conspired with the spray of freckles on her nose to make her look painfully young.

When did his command suddenly include so many children?

"We've lost main power," the youth confirmed dutifully, frowning as she reviewed incoming data. "Three upper decks are opened to vacuum but sealed off. The humans destroyed our dorsal drive fin. Weapons and jump engines off-line."

Ullor just nodded grimly. Without fighters at his disposal, his ship was now defenseless.

"Alyt, human vessel increasing speed, coming for another pass!"

"Open a transmission to fleet command and prepare a sensor dump," Alyt Ullor ordered sternly. "_Shield of Faith_ lost in conflict with human prototype warship. _Shield of Faith_ damaged-cannot escape. Threat evaluation extreme. Humans with advanced weapons based in Vor'ala system. This threat must be neutralized. End of message. Transmit."

"Message away, Alyt!"

Ullor merely grunted his acknowledgement. The fleet would have received the message far sooner if he had sent it via message beacon over hyperspace, but that was not possible with jump engines off-line.

"Helm, stand-by sub-light engine for a quick burst. The next time those pirates make a strafing run, plot a collision course."

Not a single member of the bridge crew protested.

He felt a grim sense of satisfaction as the crew carried out their duties. Moving as one, his crew calmly prepared their stations for their final action. They were performing well, and his heart burst with paternal pride.

They would _not _be triumphant today, and maybe his crew _was_ young – but on this day, they had proved themselves Warriors, worthy of Valen himself.

_Let the humans come: we're ready._

000000000000000000

"Onscreen."

Captain Skon dispassionately studied their crippled opponent. Scorch marks pocketed the hull, the alien vessel's dorsal fin ablaze as the ship notably listed to one side.

"Their scattering field is down. Reading power outages throughout the ship," April reported.

"I'm not reading targeting scanners active," Mbuto contributed. "Either they've lost weapons, or targeting, or both."

"Captain, I'm detected a massive boost of pattern tachyon emissions!" Hussein exclaimed from her comm. station. "I think they're trying to send out a distress call."

"Jam them," Skon ordered tersely. "Major Mbuto, assemble a boarding party: I want that ship intact. Mr. April, prepare a message drone and send it through the rift. Inform Admiral Paris we have subdued a hostile alien vessel and initiated boarding action. We will require additional MACO support. It is imperative we receive reinforcements before they do."

"Aye sir!"

As Major Mbuto left the bridge, Skon called out to her. "Major Mbuto – remember: Starfleet **wants** prisoners."

He laced his parting instructions to the Major with just a bit more emphasis than usual. He was well aware of how…enthusiastic the MACOs could be.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

A robed Minbari worker was helping a warrior limp down a corridor. A soft whine sounded in the corridor, puzzling both Minbari. Pillars of blue mist appeared in the corridor. The Minbari widened their eyes at the phenomenon, then took a sharp breath when the blue mist solidified into four gray-clad human MACOs.

Yellow EM particle blasts violently knocked the two Minbari onto their backs, the wounds in their torsos smoking and the stench of charred meat lingering heavily in the air.

Major Mbuto grunted her satisfaction. _This is where I belong._ Not cooped up behind a computer console, but in the field, a rifle in hand and targets in her sight. The simplicity of direct combat.

After she deployed two Macos to flanking positions, she shot a look at First Sergeant Zinkrich in wordless inquiry.

Zinkrich quickly swept the hallway with his tri-corder, studied the readings earnestly for a moment before flashing a hand signal: **_Clear._**

Mbuto nodded and made another hand gesture. **_Bridge?_**

Zinkrich gestured his response. **_Identified. Down central corridor. Two levels up, forward section. _**

Mbutu's raised her eyebrows in surprise, unconsciously mimicking her Vulcan captain. _So, their sensor stealth doesn't function inside their ships._ She would make them pay for that. She flashed another gesture: **_Engineering?_**

A moment passed.

Then, Mbutu noticed Zinkrich's eyes widen in surprise. Mbutu frowned at him, her impatient expression demanding an answer.

Her First Sergeant gestured to his tri-corder and showed her his readings…

Mbuto's lips widened into a predatory grin. Not only had Zinkrich found main engineering, but the alien ship used a quantum singularity for a power source – just like a Romulan Warbird!

Delighted at finding something familiar, she handed the tri-corder back to her First Sergeant before she softly asked, "Can you locate their modular magnetic control seals?"

It was a vital question.

If they wanted to capture the ship intact, securing the bridge was not enough. As the marines had learned from hard experience, aliens had an annoying habit of trying to blow themselves up once they discovered they had been boarded. The most common way they did that was by overloading their ship's primary power source.

If she could uncouple the magnetic controls from the ship's central systems, she could prevent them from doing that.

First Sergeant Zinkrich's brow wrinkled in concentration as he fiddled with his scanning device. "Not sure, Major. Their power conduits are a lot different from Romulan configs, and a lot bulkier…there!" His leathery face exploded into a broad grin. "'Think I got it. They put it in a compartment right next to main engineering…three decks down, two sections aft."

That was all Major Mbuto needed to hear. Clutching her communicator tighter to signal _George Bush_, she looked on patiently as an entire platoon of MACOs materialized en-masse in front of her.

It was all she could do to suppress a grin. The Bush was equipped with a brand-new mass transporter in one of her cargo bays, capable of transporting up to fifty people at a time – much faster than beaming in only four at a time, like with the old transporters just a few years ago.

Of course, there was one draw back: it was a one way trip. Though troops could be beamed out en-masse, they still had to be retrieved the old-fashioned way, four at a time.

In other words: once they beamed out, the MACOs would essentially be cut off from retreat and on their own.

That suited Major Mbuto just fine. She had no intention of retreating anyway.

Reverting back to hand signals, she quickly deployed her troops.

0000000000000000000000000000000000

The blast blinded Alyt Ullor, knocking his head against a console as he sprawled on his knees, trying to swim through the thick fog and back to his senses…

He was dimly aware of the smoke, the emergency lighting.

He couldn't shut his eyes, yet he wasn't seeing anything; and if there was sound, he couldn't hear it.

_POP!!_

The crackling from the flickering holo-display snapped him from his groggy malaise

He snapped back to his senses as EM pulses burst from the smoky doorway, showering his warriors at their consoles before they could react…

_HUMANS? HOW?_

He didn't waste time considering. "Intruders! REPEL BOARDERS!!"

Ullor's heart swelled as his warriors and bridge crew charged the humans, wielding pikestaffs and machete-like daggers.

They rushed the humans in a great surge, even as the humans showered them with weapons fire – one warrior was decapitated by a rifle blast, his head left rolling across the deck – but they closed the distance quickly.

When the range was too close for energy weapons, the rampaging horde of barbarian humans used rifle butts, bayonets, and entrenching tools to bludgeon their opponents...

Though the armored Minbari ceremonial guards inside the command center were caught by surprise, they regrouped quickly and advanced bravely, even as many of their number fell to weapons fire. Their confidence never wavered: once they closed to hand-fighting distance, the humans would die. After all, they were **Minbari** Warriors, and Minbari were physically stronger and faster than humans, typically trouncing EarthForce GROPOs with ease at close range.

Unfortunately for them, the humans they faced now were Imperial MACOs.

Moreover, the squad Major Mbuto had selected to capture the bridge were MACO _Sturmtruppen_: elite storm troopers, specifically trained to defeat Romulans, Remans, even **Klingons** in close quarters combat.

Screams of rage and pain slashed the air, the clash of blades and pikes striking each other and slicing through flesh.

A pike-wielding warrior dueled a MACO Private with his sharpened entrenching tool; the elder Minbari wrenched the crude weapon from the human, knocking him off balance. The fair-haired young Private grunted, dropping like a stone when another Minbari stuck a Sha'ann PPG into his side and fired.

In spontaneous vengeance, a grizzled Sergeant slashed that Minbari's throat with a Bowie knife, dark blood splattering his face and sweat-bleached tunic…

A pike crushed a throat, choking a Lance Corporal long enough for her to be killed…

Another hand-weapon or two fired, briefly lighting up the chamber.

Ullor spotted his closest friend, Rii Ebak, lead a mini-charge of three Worker Caste maintenance techs into the melee, drawing her hand-PPG and firing wildly.

He gasped in horror as a yellow EM round struck her armored shoulder…

Desperate to save her, Alyt Ullor unsheathed his fighting pike and waded into the battle…

Surprise had given the terrorists the decisive advantage, cutting down the number of warriors in the command center.

Within a minute, the combat turned in their favor.

Alyt Ullor, bleeding from a shoulder wound and a blade cut in his thigh, cradled Rii Ebak's broken body in his arms; so loud and formidable in life, she looked little-girl small now – and **still** every bit as beautiful as when they first served together, so many years ago…

Choking on tears of sorrow and rage, Ullor sprang to his feet, angrily thrusting his pike into a human's eye socket and viciously kicking another from his path.

This ship was his home, this crew his family…

_I've lost everything. My ship, my crew, my love…_

But he still had his honor. No alien race had ever captured a Minbari warship, **not once** in over a thousand years. _And my ship won't be the first, either._

Taking a small communication device from inside his robe, he opened a link to the ship itself. He knew what he had to do.

He spoke just three words into it.

"My Beloved Ebak'a."

0000000000000000

As his shuttle pod carried him toward the alien vessel, General Picard couldn't help gawking through his porthole. _Merde – it's gigantic!_

After his pod docked with the ship, Picard quickly inspected his uniform, straightening his posture and making sure every detail was just so before exiting the craft.

"ATEN-**_TION_**!!"

A MACO honor guard stiffened. Major Mbuto – a bruise still blossoming above one eye, but wearing a freshly pressed set of fatigues – snapped a crisp salute.

General Picard returned it just as crisply, his heart bursting with paternal pride – and, perhaps, a bit of melancholy.

To Georges, she would always be little Patty, sniffling over her scraped knees. After patching her wound with gauze and a kiss, little Patty had showered her savior with a gap-toothed smile and butterfly kisses, declaring him her husband and she was now his wife…

Picard and her father, Claude Mbuto, had begun their careers together as junior line officers in the Foreign Legion during the Second Invasion of Andoria, just before the land armies of the Terren Empire were formally consolidated into the MACOs.

Claude's death was like losing a brother, but Picard consoled his grief by caring for his little daughter Patrice, so full of life and spirit, raising her as his own, valuing her more highly than his own worthless, lazy sons.

He had followed her career with great satisfaction. She was a good marine, an outstanding officer – _she will be wearing a General's stars on her shoulder straps one day._ He could not have selected anyone better qualified to keep an eye on Starfleet's ill-advised social experiment.

But when had that sunny little nymph blossomed into such a vibrant young woman?

Then he remembered touching up his hair coloring earlier that morning. _You're getting old, mezz ami…_ "Request permission to come aboard," he requested gruffly, carefully camouflaging the tenderness underneath. Such emotion was inappropriate for the battlefield.

"Permission granted. Welcome aboard sir. If you'll follow me, sir."

As she led him from the docking bay, Picard inquired, "Where is your Captain? Why isn't he here to greet me?" Not that he wanted to meet the green-blooded robot, but it was a matter of respect, damnit!

"Captain Skon is briefing Admiral Paris aboard the _George Bush_ now. They should be arriving in another hour."

Picard smirked. "Always a half step behind. Typical Starfleet."

"Yes sir. If you want to freshen up before the meeting, we've prepared quarters this way…"

"Forget the quarters," Picard snapped churlishly. "I want to see the aliens. How many of them did you capture?"

"Exactly 47, although a couple more may have died from injuries since the last count," she replied. "This ship has an empty troop carrier section that we've converted into a temporary holding area. We've separated what we believe to be the officers from the rest of the crew."

Picard nodded his approval. "Did the aliens give you much trouble?"

"No more than usual," she remarked modestly. "Once our initial team disabled their auto-destruct and secured the bridge, reinforcements arrived promptly. It was all downhill from there."

"And the alien Captain?"

"Still alive…barely," Mbuto amended. "Unfortunately, he took a photon grenade to the chest. The doc took a look at him, but we don't think he'll live long enough to interrogate properly."

Picard's eyes sparked – he wanted to see his new enemy first hand "Take me to him."

0000000000000

_A blindingly bright day_

_Without a cloud in the sky, the suns of Minbar bathing the stark, snow covered plains of the Southern Polar region, reflecting the suns' rays in a cheery glare._

_As they always did on leave, they went S'andri Lokar – what humans would call 'cross-country skiing' – on the plains near the village where Ebak had grown up._

_Ullor would always protest – if he wanted a life of pointless manual labor, he would have been a construction hand for the Worker Caste! – but as always, she cajoled her bookish friend to join her._

_As always, she raced him to her grandparents' cabin, shamelessly teasing him as she surged ahead... _

_Ullor never complained. Her impish smile was reward enough for the indignity, and the view of her backside was not at all displeasing…_

_But this time, she had surged too far ahead; he lost sight of her in the harsh glare._

"_Ebak!" he called out. "Ebak? Ebak'a!! EBAK'A!!!"_

"Ebak'a!" he croaked deliriously.

The blinding sun glow faded, the harsh glare of the artificial light above him taking it's place.

"Merci beau coo…flattered you would waken on my account."

Adjusting his eyes, Ullor glimpsed the ugly human looming over him – big nose, fuzzy head, lips fixed in a small slash.

Fighting so hard for air, Ullor didn't even bother wondering how this human was speaking fluent Adronato. His lungs were filled with sand, and he was suddenly aware he had no feeling below his neck…

"I'm dying."

"Yes. You are."

Alyt Ullor strained his eyes up at the human, trying to preserve his dignity. _Stare all you want animal. You'll get nothing from me!_

Unfortunately, there was something Ullor needed from the human. Swallowing his pride, he licked his cracked lips, wheezing. "M…my crew?"

"Alive."

_For what its worth_, Picard amended mentally.

As part of its policy of integration, Starfleet routinely employed Vulcan "mind sifters" to extract information from alien prisoners. The lucky ones would wind up vegetables; the rest would be reduced to drooling simpletons, unable to remember their own names for more than five minutes at a time.

Picard despised the practice: he considered alien telepathy something to the left of witchcraft.

Ullor coughed violently, bloody phlegm collecting on the corners of his mouth.

Then, in a gesture that surprised Ullor, the human produced a handkerchief from his tunic and gently wiped it away.

Nostrils flaring, Ullor frowned. "Why are you here?" he seethed angrily.

"I prefer to learn about my enemies before I kill them."

Ordinarily, such bloodthirsty arrogance from an alien would have enraged Ullor.

Instead, an icy sensation squeezed his neck – FEAR. Not at what the human said, but _how_ he said it. No excitement, no cruelty – just the tone of an ordinary craftsman describing his trade.

Ullor swallowed, marshalling his voice with all the strength he could muster. "Enjoy your victory, human. The Minbari Federation will not be taken so easily."

Picard nodded solemnly, out of respect for the fallen warrior. _How many times have I heard **that** boast? How many times, from how many aliens, on how many worlds_? "I don't think you understand. Life – as your people know it – is over," Picard explained quietly.

Confronting this fellow warrior, it was suddenly very important to Picard that this alien understand what the Empire was trying to accomplish. "Life is change. Either you people will adapt to that change, or you won't. You cannot stop Progress."

Ullor choked up again, but it wasn't the phlegm. Despite the human's benign words and gracious tone, Ullor knew exactly what he meant by "Progress."

Exploitation.

Servitude.

Slavery.

Cheeks drawn, Ullor mustered a final, defiant gasp as he slowly drowned in his own blood. "We are MINBARI…w-we are the light that st-stands against the dark. We will **fight **you with our last measure of strength!"

As Ullor sputtered and died, General Picard wiped his mouth clean again. "Your strength is irrelevant," Picard confided to him softly. "Your defeat is inevitable."

"Resistance is quite futile."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Admiral Paris marveled at the alien design of the vessel.

Whereas Imperial Starfleet vessels stressed simplicity and function, this vessel looked almost organic in nature, like it was grown and nurtured instead of simply built. _What sort of people could build such a wondrous masterpiece?_

"Extraordinary….this vessel truly is extraordinary."

A loud crunching sound interrupted his musings from the conference table behind him. General Picard's face snarled with disgust around his crunchy mouthful. An elaborate buffet of alien food items were laid out for their dining pleasure – part of the spoils of war…

_Spoiled is right,_ Picard thought bitterly, spitting out the contents.

While his staff cleared the alien – _M-inberi_ – food stores safe for human consumption, they had obviously not vouched for the rancid flavor. "It's bad enough that their technology is obsolete. You would think they could at least stock some decent food, or even a single craft of wine!"

Paris frowned at his rival. "Don't be so quick to dismiss a vessel of such craftsmanship. The sheer scale of its construction and the elegance of its design speak quite highly of the culture that built it."

"Don't you think you're overstatin' things a bit?" Commodore Charles Tucker III inquired incredulously. "These people don't even have shields or polarized hull plating, and their sub-light engines aren't fit for a garbage scow."

Paris frowned. He didn't appreciate having his observations criticized by an underling, much less an uncouth Florida hick. "Their weapons were certainly formidable enough, and I'm still waiting on that analysis of their warp drive…_Commodore_."

While they wore the same uniform, he and Commodore Tucker had never gotten along.

Part of the conflict was their clashing styles; part stemmed from their clashing backgrounds.

Admiral Archibald Paris was the wealthiest officer in Starfleet and stood to inherit a family fortune that would make him one of the ten wealthiest men in the Empire.

Born into a life of aristocratic privilege, he had been educated in the finest prep schools, traveled widely, and had been groomed for high office from birth. Even if he had not chosen a career in Starfleet, he certainly could have purchased a Senate seat, a cabinet post, an ambassadorship, or any other of the trophy positions individuals of his class typically aspired.

Fascinated by model ships and war stories as a boy, young Archibald fulfilled a boyhood dream when he graduated from Starfleet Academy and began his accent to the Admiralty – an accent he intended to continue all the way to the throne.

Commodore Charles Tucker III had watched his family lose their house as a child, after his dad was laid off from another marginal job.

While Earth's economy **had** boomed in the century after First Contact, most of that wealth remained concentrated at the top. Soon after he'd been downsized, his father ran off and his mother sought solace in bottles of gin and a string of abusive boyfriends that drank just as much…and beat him just as often.

In this way, Tucker was far more representative of the typical Starfleet officer.

The needs of the general population were commonly sacrificed in favor of the _massive_ arms buildup required to fight the Alien Terror surrounding Earth, and many officers had lived difficult childhoods.

Arrested for petty larceny himself as a teenager, the judge gave young Charles a choice: prison or enlistment.

Being a strict heterosexual, Tucker chose enlistment; and when the recruiting officer uncovered Tucker's exceptional technical aptitude, assigned him to serve Starfleet as an engineering crewman. In those days, Starfleet had stressed quantity over quality in starship construction – engineers typically suffered the highest mortality rates of any category in Starfleet in those early days.

In fact, Commodore Tucker was still the highest ranking "mustang" – an officer who started out in the enlisted ranks and never attended the Academy – in Starfleet history.

However, lacking the social refinement common to his peers, his relationship with the Admiralty remained a rocky one: his promotion owed as much to heavy casualties as it did to his brute professional competence.

As befitted his temperament, Tucker scowled back at the Admiral, the delta radiation burns that scarred half his face making him look even nastier. "That's just it – they don't use warp drive either. It's going to take time to figure out." Personally, he was getting fed up with Admiral Paris 'lord-of-the-manor' routine.

General Picard smirked, deriving no small pleasure at seeing his rival service in disarray. "Actually, I believe we may be able to shed some light on that. Colonel Shen?"

Col. Shen Liu Kang, Picard's Chief of Staff, stiffened and delivered his report crisply. "Yes sir. From our interrogations, we've learned that the aliens – the Minbari – use something called jump space for faster-than-light travel. These jump space engines are significantly bulkier than standard warp engines, which accounts for the excessive size of their ship."

Since the MACO's had gotten boots on the alien ship first, they maximized that advantage for all it was worth – raiding the ship's computers for data, cracking their encryption codes, interrogating prisoners "the old fashioned way." (who needed Starfleet's alien telepaths, anyway!)

"As to how this 'jump space' travel compares to warp drive," Shen continued, turning towards Tucker snidely, "We're still awaiting Starfleet's analysis as well."

"LOOK!!" Tucker fumed, slamming his fist on the conference table, "This isn't like popping the hood on a twentieth century Toyota! Their engines operate on principles completely separate from warp drive. Forget the engineering aspects – I don't even know the basic _physics_ behind what makes this crate run yet!"

It was days like this that Tucker almost regretted his promotion to flag rank.

But – as the first chief engineer of Empress Sato's inter-dimensional flagship, and later the chief project leader in charge of reverse engineering that ship's advanced systems to build the new Daedalus class – Tucker was unofficially anointed Starfleet's resident expert on new alien technologies, receiving the rank, privileges, and headaches that accompanied that lofty station.

"In any event, we will have to delay our timetable by several months," Picard said gruffly. While he enjoyed seeing Starfleet's peacocks ruffled, he didn't want to see this meeting degenerate into chaos either. "It will take us some time to build up sufficient forces to proceed."

Paris nearly rolled his eyes. _Leave it to the marine to state the obvious._ "We may have to scrub this entire operation altogether," he said resignedly. _And leave it to those high brow morons in the Science Section to break into the **wrong dimension** in the first place._ "You've seen the data on the alien fleet."

Paris shook his head. _Six **thousand** capital ships?_ Granted, their ships were slow and outdated, but they still carried a lot of striking power. "Technical deficiencies aside, they've got numbers; and massively superior numbers can take on a quality all their own," he warned.

In fact, it was superior numbers which initially allowed the Empire to conquer the Vulcans. Many of the Terran Empire's earliest military victories owed more to strategic surprise and deploying raw overwhelming firepower than they did to any military genius on Starfleet's part – a formula which the Empire had successfully used to conquer more advanced – if usually less militant – species in rapid succession.

"Numbers are hardly a problem," the haughty Frenchman sniffed. "The MACO's are accustomed to overcoming superior numbers. From what the alien databanks tell us, these Minbari primitives are apparently the best this dimension has to offer. With a few more troops, we could be running this entire quadrant within a year!"

Granted, he would have to call in far more troops than he originally anticipated: perhaps as many as ten more divisions, with as many additional contractors as his operational budget would allow. Picard was loathed to do that – the General Staff might feel obliged to assign another General Staff Officer who might steal some of his glory – but he had little choice….

_This is definitely worth the inconvenience._

Apparently, the Klingons didn't exist in this other universe – and without **those** raging lunatics in the way, the Empire could ride roughshod over the rest of the primitives in that region – a region that seemed to be far richer in wealth and resources than a handful of burned out Klingon border worlds.

Picard couldn't let an opportunity like this slip past him….not again…

After losing his leg during the Ursula Minor Campaign after the Battle of Cheron, he missed out on the final drive to Romulus in the last war. While he was stuck aboard a blasted hospital ship, Imperial forces had clubbed their way to the Romulan Homeworlds in a matter of days.

From there, the Empire had delivered an ultimatum: become a client world of the Terran Empire, supplying natural resources, workers, and taxes as part of the 'Imperial Free Trade Zone.' In return, they would be allowed to continue living on their homeworlds, with only moderate changes in their laws to enforce their new status.

In response, the Romulans then did something that Earth scholars would puzzle over for years: rather than surrender, the citizens of Romulus committed suicide, _en masse_, on a planetary scale.

Back on Earth, the Empire merely shrugged and started loading up colony ships.

After all, claiming an empty planet _would_ be less trouble.

Unfortunately for Picard, advanced forces had already picked Romulus clean by the time he arrived: all the best loot had already been snapped up by the Admirals and Generals who got there first! To Picard's chagrin, General Axlerod – _that gutless, sniveling worm!_ – had grown so rich from the plunder on Romulus that he retired, buying a small moon after the war and spending his days surrounded by a harem of virgin lovers…

_**I** should be the one swimming in naked virgins! _

And now – with this rich new dimension begging for development – he would finally get what he deserved. "I won't allow Starfleet's cowardice to threaten the Empire," Picard blustered. "I will take this matter to the Empress herself if I must!"

Paris glared acidly at the General's ebullience. "Unless your troops can magically sprout warp nacelles and fly, you might want to consider the fleet's disposition." Admiral Paris turned toward one of the junior officers. "Ensign."

A holographic display sprouted up in the middle of the table, displaying a complete map of the "other" dimension's political territories.

Admiral Paris smirked at the MACO's slack-jawed awe at the Minbari holodisplay – though their military capabilities were crude, not all of their technology was useless. Their holographic technology was decades ahead of anything the Empire could produce; Paris knew of several CEO's back home that would be eager to patent this new technology for themselves…

Paris shook his head slightly. _Quit wool-gathering. Focus._

The bright red dots on the map represented Minbari capital ships and their battle groups.

There were **a lot** of red dots.

"If this data is to be believed, they have at least five to six thousand capital ships, approximately half of which are currently engaged in their war with the other Terran Empire," Paris explained, lapsing into lecture mode. He briefly shook his head._ What kind of name was 'Earth Alliance' for an empire anyway?_

"In order to successfully subdue a fleet of this size – even with their limited technology – Starfleet estimates would require a _bare minimum_ of two-hundred-fifty to three-hundred ships of the line – that's **not** including troop transports and supply ships. And even **then**, we would be outnumbered twenty-to-one."

Paris worked his jaw. "I remind you, our assault fleet only includes _forty _ships. Even if we mobilized the Empire's **entire **reserve corps and reactivated the retirees, we wouldn't be able to field more than two hundred ships here."

Paris didn't even mention drawing down Starfleet's strength in other theaters – the Empire was almost completely hemmed in by hostile, powerful species. Forces along the Tholian, Gorn, and Bolian borders were already spread thin.

Drawing down forces against the Klingons would be suicidal.

"So much for Starfleet manufacturing efficiency," Picard sneered, cocking a mocking eyebrow toward Commodore Tucker. "Wasn't that **your** last posting?"

Tucker practically shook with rage. _When did I get elected whipping boy?_ "Hey, whatever deficiencies we have, it's not from a manufacturing standpoint," he bristled. After personally supervising the reverse engineering of the Imperator, he was also largely responsible for modifying its advanced design to conform to Terran construction practices: to make the Daedalus warships quicker and cheaper to build.

Tucker's promotion to Commodore was a testament to his success.

At the beginning of the Romulan War, each Daedalus ship took 230 days to build; that average eventually dropped to 42 days by the end of the war. The record was set by the _Zephram Cochran_, which was launched 4 days and 15 1/2 hours after the keel was laid -- although that was only a one-time publicity stunt to boost public morale.

The ships were made assembly-line style, from prefabricated sections. Even now, the brand new, state-of-the-art Victory-Plinitia Shipyards on Mars had the production capacity to churn out one new Daedalus vessel _**per day** _– and with the acquisition of the Romulan dilithium mines on Remus, the Empire now had all the dilithium ore it needed to keep a vast fleet supplied and running for decades.

Paris grimaced. "Commodore Tucker is correct. Ships aren't the problem: turning out fully trained crews is another matter."

Victory-Plinitia might be able to churn out a new ship every day, but it still took twenty-four _months_ to train a qualified human crew to run one. "It is for that reason that I will formally petition the Empress to grant a full pardon to all former alien rebels who rejoin Starfleet."

"ARE YOU INSANE!!!" Picard exploded. "They would stab us in the back the first chance they get!"

"Not if we offered them an equal share of the bounty in the territories we liberate," Paris countered. "The fact is, we have nearly three hundred brand-new Daedalus warships gathering dust at the Coridan storage yards for want of qualified crews, with more piling up with each passing day."

"The MACO's…"

"Aren't sufficiently trained in over half the technical specialties required to keep a modern starship running," Paris interjected. "And even if we trained MACO's to fill those specialties, it would still require 18-24 months to fully train them from scratch, whereas a crew of pardoned Vulcan specialists could be brought up to speed in 4-6 _weeks_."

Picard practically shook with rage. "Are you implying that my people are less capable than a pack of aliens?"

_Yes._ "Of course not," Paris replied aloud. "But acquiring personnel that are already technically qualified would allow us to fill these vacancies more efficiently. If I can't find them on Earth, I have to get them from somewhere."

_Among other things._

While the shortage of technical personnel was real, politics played a role too. If the upcoming campaign became bloodier than expected, the brainless wonders in the Senate would start their perennial clucking if too many humans died.

Dead aliens, however, wouldn't raise nearly as much fuss.

_In fact, using the aliens could even work to my advantage._

_Alien officers might even be more reliable than their human counterparts. God bless their low expectations. _

Human officers would scheme and plot behind his back to feed their own ambitions.

Alien officers like Captain Skon, however, would be more dependant on his personal sponsorship to advance and would thus be more loyal to **him**.

If he recruited enough aliens to serve in his invasion fleet, those same aliens would form a large, prosperous political constituency for him after the war. After all, Archibald Paris had aspirations that extended far beyond the Admiralty, and building a loyal political base amongst the aliens could prove useful to his future political career…

"Can't you hire private contractors to fill those roles?" Picard demanded.

Paris glared at his MACO counterpart. "Have you **any** idea how much that would **cost**? Warp Field Specialists and Level 1 Systems Analysts are in incredible demand. Besides, we'd never find them in sufficient numbers – part of the reason they charge so much."

Picard pursed his lips and sulked – mainly because he knew Paris was right.

Between the Rebellion and the Romulan War, the Empire had simply lost too many of those highly prized specialists, and Earth simply didn't produce enough of them to fill Starfleet's needs.

The Empire's biggest problem had always been doing all the things it needed to do with the limited number of highly skilled humans it had to do them. Doing all of them had nearly proved beyond its capability during the Rebellion.

While the Empire was a military superpower, it's educational system remained a shambles. Amongst Starfleet, it was common knowledge that recruits and Academy graduates typically required additional remedial "on the job training" before they were technically proficient enough to perform their duties adequately.

The sorry state of Starfleet Academy and Training merely reflected that failure; a failure largely attributed to a lack of leadership. General Staff Command Officers (Admirals and Generals) typically demanded service either in the field or at Starfleet Headquarters.

As a result, the Academy Commandant was typically a General Officer too incompetent for field command, but without enough political clout for a cushy appointment to Starfleet Headquarters. Predictably, the quality of Starfleet instruction suffered accordingly.

To make matters worse, what academically talented people the system accidentally produced flocked overwhelmingly toward command officer training rather than the engineering specialties: it appealed to the ego, the heroic image glorified in the movies.

In addition to the spoils, war heroes had captured the fancy of the media – there was drama, with winners and losers – to a degree that running a sound starship as an anonymous engineer or systems analyst did not…

And thus, human students consistently scored at the bottom in math and science.

Meanwhile, Vulcans consistently scored at the top.

It was an ominous trend with dangerous implications – and one that Picard was all too aware of. "What you're proposing is the first step toward our enslavement."

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Due respect, General, you might be overstatin' things a tad."

Coming from the engineering ranks, Commodore Tucker had had more experience working with aliens than anyone in that room – educated aliens were typically shunted toward engineering specialties, since these were the least glamorous jobs in Starfleet.

"Most of the aliens I've worked with are perfectly up to the job."

"It's not their competence that concerns me," Picard glowered.

"Well, I've never worked with a rebellious one either, so I'm not sure what to say…" Tucker's voice trailed off. _No, that ain't true._

There is…was T'Pol.

Tucker swallowed a lump in his throat as he tried to dismiss the memory.

It was futile; he always failed. Even to this day, years later, some small piece of him longed for her. He had always remained faithful to her while she was alive, and he was never able to replace her in death. Not that Tucker ever admitted to such out loud; the last thing he needed was to be branded an alien lover.

But that didn't change the way he felt.

And she loved him too; he was sure of it.

_Okay, so she might have betrayed me once._ Her actions had cost him two hours in the Booth…

But no matter how angry he had been with her at the time, he couldn't bring himself to hate her even now. In truth, he'd happily endure an eternity in the damn thing if he could touch her one more time…

"…If you insist on recruiting those mutinous traitors, then **at least** two MACO's will be stationed for every one alien serving aboard our ships," Picard demanded stoutly, breaking into Tucker's thoughts. "They must be kept under control."

"Of course, General," Paris replied diplomatically. "We can certainly live with that."

If they could hit their recruitment goals, Paris was confident they could field an invasion force of five hundred ships within three months, perhaps as many as a thousand by year's end.

"And what about the other Empire?" Picard inquired.

Paris turned an inquiring look to Tucker.

Tucker just shrugged. "Even more primitive than this tub. According to the databanks, the humans in this universe are still using low-grade plasma cannons, rail guns, and nuclear missiles. They haven't even developed artificial gravity yet. Frankly, I'm surprised they even have faster-than-light travel."

Paris nodded. In many ways, that was more convenient. "Another competing Empire of comparable power would have been a pain to coordinate anyway. Let the spooks deal with the local humans and keep them out of our hair."

Picard nodded his tacit agreement. If this Earth Alliance was too weak to resist these savages, they wouldn't be of much use anyway. "Besides, neutralizing these _Bosche _Minbari should remain our focus as the key to the quadrant."

As Georges Picard had learned in many a barroom brawl in his youth, nothing establishes your dominance quicker than knocking out the toughest guy in the room.

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_Soft._

It was best description Ambassador Lisa Riker had for the sniveling mob of politicians across the bargaining table.

_It's no wonder they're losing this war. _

"It's granting access to the bases that's the sticking point," General Leftcourt replied. "It's your insistence on **exclusive** franchise over these bases."

"It is not our wish to interfere with the sovereignty of any government," Ambassador Riker assured demurely. "The Empire believes in peaceful contact and exploration, but we will defend ourselves if attacked. All we ask is your cooperation."

As she had learned from her experience in Homeworld Security's Section 31, it was important to appear approachable, to grant these strutting peacocks the illusion that they were being included.

_At least for now. _

She made a point of reminding herself to treat the EarthForce "war leaders" with respect.

_Remember, dignity, dignity; let them save face. _

Lisa nearly shook her head at the notion.

**_Losers._**_ If Starfleet officers had ever performed as poorly in the field…_

"General Leftcourt meant no disrespect," President Levy stated firmly. "However, we are concerned about the continued security of our territory after the war. Besides, granting so many bases to a foreign power within our territory would prove unpopular here on the homeworld."

Under ordinary circumstances, negotiating with a foreign ambassador on such terms was nearly unprecedented, but these were unprecedented times. The Earth Alliance was facing genocide from the fanatical Minbari.

The EIA (Earth Intelligence Agency) was convinced that the Minbari were determined to exterminate the human race. Their best analysts all agreed that the Minbari refusal to target civilians was just a trick – that after EarthForce was disarmed, that they would then double back to wipe out the civilian population later.

All the intelligence experts agreed – _and since the Minbari refuse to speak to us, what choice do I have but to expect the worst? _

"I had hoped that our sharing the Minbari vessel with you would have demonstrated our good faith," Riker replied pointedly.

"And we're grateful!" Senator Morgan Clark piped in. "But the servicemen and women of our armed forces have been resisting the Minbari for so long, it would be an insult to our troops to signal our loss of confidence in them."

Riker nodded sympathetically. "We have nothing but the utmost respect for your brave fighting men and women," she replied smoothly. "The Empire has no interest in annexing any territory. But we do require staging facilities from which to launch a counter-offensive, and our higher tempo of fleet deployment would be more efficient if they had their own facilities."

President Levy nodded, careful to mask her annoyance at Senator Clark's outburst. "Perhaps…a temporary lease agreement? For the duration of the war?"

_Hooked._ Ambassador Riker nearly pulled a muscle suppressing the triumphant smirk that threatened. "That is an intriguing offer, Madame President. I believe I can agree to that in principle."

While President Levy's poker face never slipped as she nodded solemnly, Senator Clark couldn't stop grinning like an idiot, betraying the EA's desperation to close a deal.

As the Chairman of the powerful Ways and Means Committee, Morgan Clark had often criticized the wartime performance of President Levy, who had originally been elected before the war as "The Great Compromiser." _Maybe that Ivy League Princess wasn't such a lousy choice after all. _

"Perhaps an agreement to vacate within 3 months of an armistice with the Minbari?" While phrased as a question, however, Levy's tone was that of a statement.

Riker cocked her head toward the President. "I need to clear this with my government – but I believe we have an accord," she replied pleasantly.

That was just a ploy, of course: when the formal agreement was written, Riker knew she would arrange for the language to be softened, to allow Starfleet to retain those bases "for the duration of hostilities" – a vague phrase that could be re-interpreted to mean anything...

In addition to being used to prolong Starfleet's residence indefinitely.

_After all, that trick worked well enough with the Tellarites and Denobulans. _

"And all bases are to remain under Earth Alliance's flag," Senator Clark added confidently, buoyed with confidence. It had long been his contention to elevate Earth's position amongst the alien races as a major power. Now, with these other humans in the mix – _maybe they'll even join the Earth Alliance; powerful as they are, it doesn't sound like there are that many of them_ – the Earth Alliance might become the galaxy's greatest superpower!

"Far be it from me to contravene the wishes of our new ally," Ambassador Riker replied obsequiously.

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_There are advantages to being persona non grata on Earth_, Ambassador Londo Mollari reflected sourly as he studied the mob packed into the Palace of Nations in Geneva.

There were over six hundred people in the grand ballroom. Most of the crowd consisted of Earth Alliance (EA) Senators and other high ranking EarthDome dignitaries, along with their spouses and closest relatives. Perhaps two dozen of EA's most prominent industrialists, including the notoriously reclusive William Edgars of Edgars Industries. A handful of the Joint Chiefs of Staff from EarthForce, along with several Starfleet officers from the small flotilla that had escorted the colonial human representative to Alliance Earth.

At least he'd been spared this unpleasantness since his arrival from Centauri Prime a few weeks earlier. This was the first time he'd been invited to an EarthDome state function since the Earth-Minbari War began.

_And why have I been invited at all? _

The humans had been rather sullen toward the Republic for some time, apparently offended that the Centauri refused to commit national suicide by intervening on their behalf.

_Didn't I WARN them to leave the Minbari alone?!_

No doubt the Earthers enjoyed rubbing his nose in the fact that the "ambassador" from their long-lost colony, this shadowy "Terran Empire," enjoyed more status here than the representative from the ancient and glorious Centauri Republic.

"My feet hurt," Londo announced.

"Yes, my Lord."

"And my back hurts," he went on.

"Yes, my Lord."

"And with all this insincere smiling, my _face_ hurts!"

"Your Lordship bears his suffering gracefully."

Londo turned toward his cheeky young aid, Benthar Tatsu, who stared back with angelic innocence.

Unfortunately, the sarcasm of his brazen aid was the highlight of this evening's entertainment. Londo had spent most of the evening smiling blankly, paying more attention to the Tintoretto paintings on the walls and ceilings than any of the self-important posturing the Earthers indulged so much.

Londo would have _much_ preferred to be in Monte Carlo at the craps tables.

However, Geneva was actually quite pleasant in the summer, and he was eager to enjoy the amusing curiosities of this quaint little world before they were annihilated by the Minbari.

It was a shame really. He liked the humans.

Londo thought that old Count Duku had been more right than he knew when he submitted his initial assessment of the humans after First Contact: **Within a few short centuries, these humans will either conquer the galaxy or completely destroy it.**

Londo sighed. Regardless of how he felt, he would gain nothing here except perhaps a closer look at some more humans before they were wiped out.

_Perhaps the Minbari might spare a few to continue their line? Perhaps this new colony, this so-called empire, was too distant for the Minbari fleet to bother attacking?_

The majordomo announced something.

"Did you hear that, Benthar?" he asked, nudging his aid.

"Yes, my Lord."

Londo glared at him again. Benthar's sarcastic humor was an acquired taste and a flavor Londo did not care for at all.

Unfortunately, the obnoxious young bastard was married to Treasury Minister Tomatoa's favorite daughter. What could he do?

"It is the Terran Ambassador, my Lord. She has just arrived," Benthar whispered, using the low undertone that all diplomats learned for functions like this one, his face hardly moving from its practiced smile – around the room, other diplomats were being briefed in like manner. "The dark-haired Lady in front is the Terran Ambassador, Lisa Riker. She speaks for their Empress Sato. The tall alien behind her with the pointed ears is Captain Skon. His species is Vulcan, and he commands the vessel that towed the captured Minbari ship to Earth…"

Londo almost missed Benthar's description of Skon. His eyes were completely riveted to the ambassador. Instead of the dried up crone he was expecting, he instead faced dazzling youth and beauty.

_She looks more like a courtesan than an ambassador! _

Nobody else at such an event would be that young, that good looking, with such poise and bearing…

_And her outfit! _

Her top – almost too little of it to call a bodice – seemed to be made of woven gold. More silver material bordered it, and the bordering met and gathered up at the left shoulder to support a large broach – a globe with a square-handled dagger neatly impaling it. From the gather, over the shoulder, fell several folds of the fabric, the gold interwoven with it, down to her waist.

Her right shoulder was completely bare, as was her midriff. Her skirt began low on her hips, gracefully flowing past the tops of her knee-high boots, but cut right up to the belt at her hips.

"The rest I do not know, my Lord," Benthar admitted, nodding toward the gigantic human in gray behind the Ambassador Riker – an older, muscular soldier with a large scar across his face, clad in a crisp gray uniform with a sidearm and a large dagger holstered to his belt.

Neither weapon looked like they were ceremonial, either. "The large soldier is the head of their embassy guard, I believe."

"Guard?" Londo murmured back.

It was vanishingly rare that an ambassador had a formal guard while attending a foreign government, even during wartime. A small crew of professional soldiers, perhaps, for ceremonial events or minor security. But a formal liveried guard for a mere ambassador was either outrageously ostentatious or very pointed distrust, even by Centauri standards.

Londo watched with interest as the scantily-clad young woman formally presented her credentials to Earth Alliance President Elizabeth Levy. It was, as always on Earth, a highly stylized business.

_Clearly trying to imitate the majesty of the Centauri Royal Court!_

The credentials handed over in a fat leather wallet fringed with all manners of tassels and pendant seals. The formal words were spoken aloud, and then a few words of mutual esteem and friendship.

_Not many, though._

That was either good or bad. If they meant to let it all keep for a serious bargaining session at EarthDome later, then it was good for the colonials. Whatever, it looked good for the human colonials, and they offered a ray of hope the Earthers clung to with both hands, eager to show off their **first** ally in the war...

Londo tuned back in to the Ambassador's remarks.

"But standing beside you is not enough," Ambassador Riker stated gravely, gathering more resolve with each word. "I carry this solemn pledge: the Empire stands beside you -- now and **always**. Even after this war is won, we will **continue **to take the battle to Humanity's enemies, disrupt their plans and confront the worst threats **before** they emerge, so Earth is never threatened again."

"Defending ourselves from Aggression is not enough. Mere Deterrence is not enough. Humanity must be ready for **pre-emptive** actions when necessary to defend our liberty and to defend our lives!"

"The only path to safety is the path to action – and the Terran Empire stands ready to act!"

Thunderous applause burst forth, champagne corks popping – a pleasant sound rarely heard at public functions since the beginning of the Earth-Minbari War.

A white-uniformed waiter poured a champagne bottle over a pyramid of champagne glasses, letting the bubbling liquor flow down from the top glass to fill the others. The stars of Earth – the rich and famous, diplomats, generals, and assorted politicians – celebrated the reversal of Earth Alliance's sagging war fortunes.

They all felt like heroes for having been here to toast this day.

In the background, a cheery young ISN correspondent smiled brightly into the camera, her perfect teeth gleaming brightly. "…sorry, Bob. There's quite a bit of noise here. Unlike many state dinners, it's a party atmosphere here at Earthdome. As you can see, there are banners representing the various worlds invited to witness the formal alliance between the Terran Empire and the Earth Alliance. Banquet tables are laden with food and drink from all over Known Space … Ah. The President is now approaching the podium to make her remarks, formally announcing this new alliance."

The studio anchorman furrowed his face in concentrated interest. "_Sandri, are there any insights you've gathered about the President's anticipated remarks?"_

The correspondent shook her head slightly, her hair never moving. "Speculation is still running rampant about the origins of this alleged 'Empire' and the captured Minbari warship they towed into Earth's orbit, but the President has promised a full explanation in her speech tonight."

A fresh burst of lusty applause broke out as President Levy hugged an "honorary guest" – a disabled EarthForce veteran in a wheelchair – as she made her way to the podium.

Sandri grinned brightly into the camera. "The electricity in the air makes for a pleasing tonic to an Earther proud to be the citizen of a nation that will finally survive!"

"_Indeed it does, Sandri_," the anchorman observed gravely. "_By delivering that captured Minbari battleship to EarthForce and allying with Earth Alliance, public opinion polls show a marked rise in public confidence, relieving a huge burden from President Levy's shoulders. Future success against the Minbari would bring more alien worlds to our side and help force a peaceful resolution to the war._"

"Yes, Bob. It looks like a new beginning for the human race…"

As the EA President began her speech, Ambassador Londo Mollari remained uncharacteristically subdued.

When these Terrans towed that captured Minbari vessel to Earth, Londo had been inclined to believe Centauri Prime's Intelligence Ministry, which speculated that the Earthers had just gotten lucky and captured an old Minbari derelict – or that the entire episode was just an elaborate hoax to boost wartime morale.

But after the Terran ambassador's remarks, Londo no longer shared their assessment. Her youth and scandalous attire aside, the absolute confidence with which she spoke rattled him.

And her remarks about "pre-emptive action" concerned him even more.

_If these new humans have the might to subdue **Minbari** warships…_

A chill shot up Londo's spine. Similar words had once been spoken by Emperor Cartagio during the Centauri Republic's expansionist phase.

Londo made a mental note to call upon Ambassador Riker to learn more about this "Terran Empire."

As he did, Count Duku's warning never stopped running through his mind.

_These humans will either conquer the galaxy or completely destroy it._

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"_Slaughtered, I say again!_"

Anne Coulter VI Gustafson filled the banquet hall with her voice, the microphone carrying her voice over the hubbub of far too many people packed into far too small a space – and with far too much alcohol packed inside them to boot.

"_Slaughtered, I say again!_"

Javier LaForge looked at his companion across the small table in a corner of that packed hall and rolled his eyes. "How many times do you think she'll repeat that line?"

William "Big Bill" Kirk swirled the whiskey in his glass. "Ten, at least." Then, shrugging: "Better her than you or me, Javi. Somebody's got to keep the boys and girls stirred up."

"_Our brave servicemen and women, butchered like cattle by the bloodthirsty alien hordes threatening our borders! Has ever mankind seen a more infamous act of treachery than such a cowardly ambush? Even the craven Vulcans hadn't shed as much human blood when they invaded our world…_"

Bill Kirk chuckled. "Sore, isn't she? I guess she's still riled because she was sure she'd be appointed the new governor of Vulcan. Empress Sato's declaration of Vulcan's new 'Associate' status blew up Annie's political ambitions."

LaForge didn't reply. The statement was true enough, of course, but he didn't share Kirk's cynical equanimity on the subject. For Kirk, any expedition was just another job – whether he killed Vulcans, Alconians, or Yridians, he got paid just the same per diem. But LaForge had been counting on grabbing some prize real estate on Vulcan himself. He could have sold it to speculators within a year and turned a handsome profit on the deal.

Unfortunately, Empress Sato's surprisingly lenient treatment of the Vulcans had robbed "security contractors" like LaForge of a potentially lucrative economic opportunity.

As a result, he was holed up on Gamma Virginis, trying to evade his creditors.

"—_Milbari fascists. Who knows what **weapons of** **mass destruction** they're building to kill us all—_"

But there was no point in dwelling on past misfortunes. If all went well, before long he'd be rich enough to thumb his nose at any creditors soon enough. "Any word from V'Las?" he asked.

"He'll be bringing his regiment the day after tomorrow."

LaForge frowned into his whiskey glass. "I still don't like the idea. You know as well as I do that he's just looking for an angle to set up an independent Vulcan colony."

"So what?" Kirk drained his own glass. "Let 'em dream. Their fleet was smashed during the Rebellion. They wouldn't stand a chance against the Empire now. And in the meantime, he's guaranteed to put two hundred and fifty experienced soldiers in the field for us."

"—_snakehead religious fanatics!! I say, those aliens would be better off if we just killed off their tyrannical leaders and converted them to Christianity! What say you?_"

LaForge and Kirk both winced. An instant later, the roar of the crowd hammered their ears.

When the noise ebbed enough to allow conversation again, LaForge returned stubbornly to the subject. "Vulcan soldiers, Bill. Who's to say—"

"Not more than a third," Kirk interrupted. He looked away for a moment, a considering expression on his face. "Most of the guys around V'Las are a mixed bag – Tellarites, Denobulans, Orions, even a few humans from the outer colonies. They'll listen to V'Las in the field, but that's it."

He stood up, holding his empty glass. "Another?"

LaForge shook his head. "No, I've got to be able to see straight tomorrow morning. At least—"

"—_problem will be catching those bald barbarians, the way they'll run at the sight of **real **fighting soldiers! I'm telling you—_"

"God, I'm sick of that harpy's voice," LaForge grumbled. "As I was saying, at least she came up with the weapons she said she would. Over two thousand EM rifles and nearly a hundred Romulan plasma mortars."

Kirk's eyes widened. "Where did—"

"Don't ask, Bill. But you can probably figure it out."

After a moment, Kirk smiled. "Benefactors in high places, I guess. But I'll be the very model of discretion."

After Bill Kirk left, LaForge drained his own glass.

"—_envy of every patriot of Earth! And then! On to **Kronos**!!"_

Another roar from the crowd caused LaForge to hunch his shoulders. "Enough, already," he muttered to himself.

He eyed the far-distant exit, gloomily certain it would take him five minutes to work his way through this rowdy mob. More like ten, if he wanted to avoid a bar fight – which would likely result in either a disrupter bolt in the back or a knife in his ribs.

Half the patriotic "security contractors" and "enforcement specialists" in the convention hall would fight over any offense, and they could find an offense almost anywhere.

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The next few days of negotiations between Earthdome and Ambassador Riker's team grew increasingly intense. President Levy and her team desperately wanted as much as they could get away with.

The tentative agreement essentially boiled down to Imperial weapons and scanners for Earth Alliance's basic information on jump space technology.

Photon grenades with their lethal combination of simplicity and destructive capability were being drooled over by the EarthForce. Close quarters combat had always favored the Minbari – stand off and deliver capability was a necessity if a human wished to survive an attack from one of them.

In addition, the Empire also agreed to provide one hundred Mark Two subspace scanning arrays (twenty years out-of-date, by Imperial standards) to be installed aboard EarthForce ships. The range was limited to one hundred thousand kilometers, but they would allow EarthForce vessels to get a proximity lock on Minbari ships through their stealth field. It wasn't much, but it was expected to give Earth Alliance a fighting chance and more time until Starfleet arrived in force.

But what EarthForce really wanted were some of the photonic torpedoes and phaser cannons the Starfleet had used to defeat the Minbari ship.

Ambassador Riker said no.

With private negotiations lasting late into the night in her office, President Levy became increasingly convinced that Riker was not going to budge, either.

"By your own admission, the Minbari have a massive fleet," Levy protested. "Surely your Starfleet would be less pressed if you could upgrade our weapons, to sufficiently bleed them before your forces arrive."

Riker sighed, brushing her thick hair from her cheek with light fingers. "I'm afraid my hands are tied on that issue. As there is no formal agreement between our two star nations, additional weapons can only be provided once the main fleet arrives. Unfortunately, I'm bound by the constraints of the Empire's Prime Directive regarding sensitive intellectual properties: exposing a culture to alien technologies to a lesser developed society could prove both harmful and dangerous."

Levy frowned. "With all due respect, we are hardly a primitive culture…"

"A poor choice of words on my part. My apologies," Riker interrupted. Then, eager to relieve the President's tension, the spy-cum-diplomat softened her features as she fixed her gaze on the portrait of Abraham Lincoln adorning the mantel above the fireplace of President Levy's office. "Is that genuine or a reproduction?"

Thrown off by the younger woman's abrupt change of subject, Levy's frown deepened. "An original Alb Meyer, on loan from the Smithsonian."

Riker nodded thoughtfully. "I thought so. I was an art history major in college myself. I remember viewing it at the Smithsonian…on my Earth." She chuckled. "I've actually been wondering about that ever since I saw it in this room. Of course, I only got to see it beneath a pane of glass from a distance. May I?"

Levy nodded, some of the tension draining from her shoulders as she looked on at the reverent way the young woman humbly approached the masterpiece. In all their negotiations, it was the first real sign of Lisa Riker the person.

Levy let the silence linger a moment before remarking, "It was painted in 1860, shortly before he was nominated for president. You can tell that from his clean-shaven appearance and the lack of frown lines across his face." Elizabeth chuckled self-consciously. "I shudder to think what this job is doing to **my** face and figure."

The young woman turned around to smile at her warmly. "I'd say you're holding up much better."

"The man held his country together through a civil war, Madame Ambassador."

"Saving humanity from extinction isn't too shabby either, Madame President."

They commiserated with a shared smile, cutting through some of the tension of the previous several days. The President relaxed enough to flop down on the couch and kick off her shoes. "Whenever I feel myself slipping, whenever I feel like I'm being overwhelmed by events, I remember the standard he set and remind myself of what the standards of this office entail."

Planting herself beside her on the couch, Lisa slipped off her own shoes and tucked her feet beneath herself, facing Elizabeth. In her most endearing, lop-sided grin, Lisa smirked. "You don't set your sights low, do you?"

Now it was Elizabeth's turn to cock her head curiously at the young woman. "You had an Abraham Lincoln in your universe?" _Could greatness transcend different dimensions? _

President Levy mentally kicked herself for not wondering earlier – in the Earth Alliance's mad drive to secure technology and military intervention from the Terran Empire, no one in Earthdome had inquired into the historical or cultural records of their trans-dimensional cousins yet.

"Of course," Riker answered reverently, "One of Earth's greatest early presidents."

In fact, Lincoln was the original pioneer of the Empire's current "divide-and-rule" strategy among the aliens: he emancipated the negro slaves and enlisted them in the Union armies to crush the Confederate Rebellion.

"A remarkable leader, in any context," Riker echoed, suddenly curious to learn a bit more about the EA's history: surely, if their history could produce such great leaders, they might be integrated into the Empire on more favorable terms.

In the interest of identifying other parallel historical figures, Riker added, "Personally, I still keep a copy of Mohandas Gandhi's autobiography in my office library." Riker smiled slyly. "Just a paperback version, of course."

Levy's eyebrows flew up in astonishment. "**You're** and admirer of **Gandhi**?" she gasped incredulously, trying to reconcile the thoroughly modern, practical, ruthless negotiator would profess admiration for the greatest man of peace in human history.

Then Levy scolded herself. _The woman is a diplomat; of course she would!_ Shaking her head gently, she replied, "Any man who could liberate a continent without a war is certainly worthy of respect."

Riker was equally intrigued that Levy would recognize and respect Gandhi.

Through a ruthless campaign of assassinations, sabotage, espionage, and blackmail, Gandhi had forcibly evicted the British Empire from India with hardly a shot fired. In the century that followed, the CIA, KGB, MI-6, Mossad, and every major intelligence agency in the world would mimic his tactics.

To this day, Gandhi was **still** revered as the godfather of modern spycraft and Section 31.

"I wonder how many other figures our two Earth's share in common," Riker mused aloud.

"Perhaps, in addition to exchanging jump space and weapons data, we could add an exchange of historical and cultural archives?" President Levy inquired, confident the Ambassador would agree.

_Maybe these people aren't so different after all. _

_00000000000000000000000000000000_

Later that evening in bed, Ambassador Riker pored over the historical archives she had downloaded from the datanet link EarthGov had provided for the embassy on her palmtop tablet computer.

"Uncanny," Lisa muttered. Aside from a few minor differences, the respective histories of the two Earths were remarkably close, even if the aliens inhabiting their respective universes were totally different.

_Hell, their twentieth century was practically identical._ The First and Second World Wars, the Great Depression, the Cold War, the Zionist conquest of Jerusalem, genocide, ethnic cleansing, globalization…

Similar, but certainly not identical. For example, the EA's historiography was decidedly more sentimental and naïve. As a Harvard alum, Lisa was especially amused by their romantic characterization of the Kennedy family, the most ruthless political dynasty of the twentieth century. Their historians **still** described the Kennedy assassinations as unconnected events perpetrated by lone gunmen.

_If their history was anything like ours, they still don't know… _

A weight shifted beside her, an arm wrapping around her waist, distracting her. "Mmmh…I can't believe you're still working," Sanjay mumbled.

Annoyed, Lisa shook him off. "Do you mind? I have work to do."

Her executive assistant smirked his cocky grin, nuzzling her ear. "If you're so concerned with history, we could try reliving a little recent history right now."

Lisa rolled her eyes. "As scintillating as those seven minutes were, I need to get through this."

Rubbing his eyes, Sanjay peered down at Lisa's palmtop tablet. "I fail to see what you find so riveting. Whatever coincidental quirks in their development, they're still completely separate from us."

"Not completely," she contradicted, tapping her palmtop thoughtfully.

"Please," Sanjay snorted, pointing at the first example he found on her pad. "Who the hell is Bill Clinton, and why would Hillary Rodham marry **him** instead of George Bush?"

"Some of the differences started with minor discrepancies, but they later ballooned into much wider differences," she observed, chewing her lip. "They never experienced the Eugenics Wars. Their Third World War broke out over thirty years later and played out completely differently."

Sanjay grinned slyly, stroking her arm absently. "I'd say that proves my point. These people are practically aliens."

Lisa shook her head slightly. "Despite the differences, I'm just not so sure." For all President Levy's caution, Senator Clark and many of the EarthForce Joint Chiefs were markedly similar to the politicians and bureaucrats that haunted the halls of Starfleet Headquarters on Imperial Earth…

_Especially Senator Clark._ His "Earth First" platform was practically a carbon copy of the Terran Empire's mission statement. _Oh yes, their not so alien at all. _

Finally giving up his romantic efforts, Sanjay simply sighed and made himself comfortable. "I doubt Homeworld Security is going to accept your gut feelings as a valid basis of evaluation."

Lisa turned a suspicious glare at Sanjay direction. _Was that a threat?_

Suddenly realizing his error, he quickly added, "I was just speculating, Lise. I'm just curious as to why you think these…_people_ have anything in common with us."

"Fair enough," Lisa replied, scrolling categories on her palmtop. As she was already viewing the American history link, she simply scrolled to an earlier period. "Did you know about this?"

Sanjay frowned with puzzlement. "The American Revolution?"

"It's a particular article I found," she explained patiently. "During the American Revolution, most of the Native American tribes were allied with the British, including a tribe called the Iroquois, who condemned George Washington as the 'town burner.' And do you know why?"

He shrugged warily. "I suspect I'm about to find out."

_Wise ass._ Of course, he had a very cute one, so she let it slide. "General Washington ordered an army under the command of a General Sullivan to march into Iroquois territory and crush them."

Lisa waived her palmtop for emphasis. " Washington's orders were just that explicit, Sanjay! '**The immediate objects are the total destruction and devastation of their settlements'**. Sullivan practically destroyed their nation, driving them from New York State forever."

Unable to contain it, he yawned. "I'm appalled. So what?" The history of the Empire was full of brutality and slaughter, and American history was even bloodier than most – Lisa's revelation was hardly a surprise.

"You don't understand. I didn't get that little anecdote from our history," she explained, eyes glittering.

"I got it from **their's**."

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Next: Chapter 4: The Aliens


	4. Chapter 4

**All previous disclaimers apply.**

**Salute to John Clancy's Red Storm Rising in first section. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 4 **

Shai Alyt Branmer pondered the name of his flagship, _Tirshia_, named after Valen's legendary flagship during the Shadow War a thousand years ago. _Had Valen ever entertained such fears of doom in private?_

The war was not going well.

More precisely, the war was becoming harder than ever.

It began when a handful of perimeter ships began disappearing several weeks ago.

It later culminated into a full blown Earther counter-offensive.

Ordinarily, this would not have been as dire a concern. EarthForce ships were slow, clumsy, and hopelessly outmatched: even a simple scan could disable their jump drives. The Earther's crude weapons were often just as useless, since their primitive targeting computers were unable to penetrate the Minbari sensor stealth systems…

_Until now. _

And suddenly, those "crude" Earther weapons didn't seem so primitive anymore.

Indeed, even before cracking the Minbari stealth, the war had not been easy, no matter what confidant platitudes the Gray Council spouted. While the Minbari had been winning huge victories over the humans, those victories did not come without a price.

The Warrior caste had _still_ lost an average of one ship for every five Earth ships they destroyed, as the Earthers reverted to visual targeting, saturation bombardment, and suicidal ramming actions to inflict as many casualties as they could.

The bitterest example had been the Battle of Altair, which many of the warriors still recalled with quiet resentment...

After the warriors had driven the Earthers from that vital system, Clan Leader Shakiri personally piloted a _Nial_ fighter onto the deck of the Tirshia, before flamboyantly thanking his bloodied warriors for "A Mission Accomplished" – over 250 human warships had been slaughtered in less than **twenty minutes** of combat, and the Earth Alliance was cut in two, with the most populous Sol and Proxima systems isolated from their outer colonies.

However, that "easy" victory had also cost the Warrior Caste nearly 40 ships and 9,000 casualties – figures the Gray Council were inclined to keep quiet.

That was **two years** ago.

_And __**before**__ the Earthers somehow cracked our stealth systems…_

A bright yellow light flashed overhead – a real-time visual holodisplay from the battle in that same Altair System was being relayed back to his _Shagotti_ Dreadnaught via hyperspace beacons.

Branmer blinked his eyes clear, watching the fireball turn into a blazing comet that crashed into the planet below. _Ours or theirs?_

Another collection of promising young lives snuffed out by missiles.

Ever since he left the monastery, Branmer had been preparing his whole life for such a moment. The difficult initiation into the Warrior Caste, years of learning and perfecting his skills as a warrior, promotion to command a cadre. Three more years at the Valentia Military Academy on Minbar after he'd been recognized as a rising star. Then command of a brigade. Back to Minbar to apprentice with Shai Alyt Kalistar, where he was unofficially anointed her protégé. Command of a wing, then an entire fleet…._all for this?_

The shrieks from the wounded still echoed in his ears from his last visit to the infirmary. Not like in the tele-plays he'd secretly watched as a boy – that he still watched.

The wounded were supposed to suffer in quiet, determined dignity, sipping refreshments proffered by the kindly, hardworking medics, waiting their turn for the courageous, hardworking healers….

_What a nest of lies!_

The profession for which he'd dedicated his life was organized slaughter. He sent freckle-faced children into cold space to be rained on with scalding energy beams and watered with blood.

Those that died quickly in the vacuum of space were the lucky ones. Crews who escaped from their flaming vessels with burns were the worst, with their clothes alight – they never stopped screaming.

Those killed by shock or the PPG of a merciful officer were only replaced by more. The rest reached overflowing infirmaries that were falling apart, staffed with medics too busy to offer refreshment and fatigued healers dropping from exhaustion.

Meanwhile, Minbari defenses on Altair were crumbling.

He wondered if his forces there could hold now – _or have I wasted all these young lives for nothing?_

This was no map exercise or a war game, nor a handful of training accidents or border skirmishes. It was one thing for a Warrior to see all this after following orders from above. It was another for the Warrior who _gave_ the orders to witness the fruits of his decisions.

**There is nothing so terrible as a battle won – except a battle lost.**

Branmer remembered the quote from Valen's _Commentaries_ on the Great Shadow Wars. Unfortunately, few of today's young warriors had bothered reading them anymore as Branmer did.

_If warriors read more of those remarks and less about glory, then what would they do when their political masters ordered them to march? Now there's a radical idea…_

He looked at Alyt Neroon studying a holographic strategic display. A good man, an effective warrior – _what does he think of all this?_

"Shai Alyt, the phantom ships have just reappeared. They are attacking our left flank. They caught two squadrons moving into new positions."

Branmer strode to Neroon's side and surveyed the available units. The Earthers still weren't cooperating. The attack had come at the junction of two attack wings: One worn out, the other fresh but unblooded.

The tactical display automatically updated: Minbari forces were pulling back.

"Keep the reserve wing in place," Branmer ordered. "Have the Wind Swords advance…here. We'll catch their flank as they approach the nebula."

Neroon shook his head with disgust. "Every time we breakthrough, they slow us down and counter-attack," he growled angrily. "This was not supposed to happen!"

"A prescient observation," Branmer snarled, then regained his temper. He did not have the same luxury as his subordinate. "We've expected that a tactical breakthrough would have the same effect as in the Shadow War. The problem is those new Earther phantom ships."

Like most Minbari, Branmer dismissed the Earther's ridiculous propaganda regarding the "Terran Empire." Earther's had not achieved interstellar space travel long enough for _any_ of their colonies to grow so powerful.

Their claims about inter-dimensional travel were just as ludicrous – no one but First Ones could accomplish such a thing, and these Earthers were certainly not First Ones.

Branmer pointed to a blurry digital picture – it looked like a collection of dark gray tubes glued haphazardly together. "They are using some new method of propulsion, moving at demonic speeds in normal space all along our axis of advance, firing those pulsing orbs of death, then disappear to repeat the whole process over."

Shai Alyt Morzat matched the gloomy expression of his comrades. "No one could have anticipated the Humans penetrating our stealth systems! Until the Workers cure that defect, the Earther's defensive force protection will be far stronger than before."

"But our success is based on movement!" Neroon protested, more out of frustration than any need to point out the obvious. "A mobile force under these conditions cannot afford to be pinned down like this, or it will be torn apart!"

As if to illustrate the point, a gang of Earther _Hyperion_-class heavy cruisers launched several nuclear-tipped missiles at a crippled _Sharlin_ battle cruiser, striking their target in the same area.

The doomed Minbari ship caved in, consumed in nuclear fire, taking with them nearly a dozen fighters, one larger scout and one gunboat.

A wing of _Tinashis_ and other support ships fired back, crushing three of the _Hyperions_ before they could employ evasive maneuvers.

Suddenly, two of those Tenashis crumbled under a photonic torpedo barrage as a pair of small phantom ships streaked past…

But not before the surviving Tenashis bracketed one of those murderous ships with neutron cannon fire, its shields flaring brightly as it shuddered violently. Hurt, the small ship rapidly retreated at sub-light speed, leaking drive plasma.

An angry swarm of Minbari _Nial_ fighters chased in hot pursuit…

Branmer's attention never wavered from the images and data streaming in. "We have failed to appreciate how effectively a handful of small, fast-moving raiders can decimate our advanced columns. A simple breath through won't be enough..."

He trailed off thoughtfully, coming to grips with the new strategic and tactical realities he was now facing. "We would need to blast a hole in their front and sprint at least twenty parsecs through hyperspace to prevent them from shutting down the jump gates and jump beacons in order to navigate. Only by regaining strategic mobility will we be free of those Shadow-cursed ships. Only then could we switch to true mobile doctrine."

Neroon nearly winced. "Are you saying we can't win?" Admittedly, he was starting to develop doubts, but he did not expect to hear them from his commander.

"This campaign of ours has become a war of attrition," Branmer clarified patiently to his younger colleague, "For the moment, it seems technology has defeated the military arts – both ours and theirs. What we're doing now is seeing who runs out of warriors and ships first."

Morzat scoffed. "We have more of both!"

Branmer's lips thinned, grimly tightening to a straight line. "That is true, my friend. I have many more young warriors to throw away."

In fact, more casualties were flooding the hospital-care vessels every hour from the vicious ground war on Altair 4, where Shai Alyt Tokkal's garrison was now besieged by three times as many EarthForce GROPOs.

The line of medical transports running to and from the surface never stopped.

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"We've plugged the plasma leak, but we're still limited to half impulse," Lt. Patel reported.

Captain Skon's face remained impassive. "And our warp drive?"

The harried Chief Engineer shook his head. "The starboard nacelle is a total loss. Even after we repair the warp manifold, I couldn't give you much more than Warp 1.5, 1.6 max."

Lt. Commander April frowned. At that speed, it would take the _George W. Bush_ six years to reach the Rift and Terran space. "With half our EPS conduits blown out, our shield strength is down to thirty percent. We're a sitting duck here."

Skon raised his eyebrow a centimeter as he glanced at his Comm. Officer. "What is the status on our relief?"

"Sector Command has already dispatched a combat tug," Lt-JG Hussein replied, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "They should be arriving in four days."

"**Four days?!**" Lt. Patel snapped, glowering at the petite, attractive young comm. officer. "Half of engineering is still flooded with coolant vapor. We'll never get the shields to minimal levels by then!"

April glared acidly at the Chief Engineer. "I'd say that situation is more Engineering's failing than anyone's, _Lieutenant_."

Captain Skon looked on with disguised concern. Lt. Commander April had taken a chair next to the comely Lt-JG Inge Hussein. Skon did not miss the subtle proprietary hints in the postures of both young officers toward each other.

Ordinarily, this would not be a problem – **if** Hussein had not recently broken up with the Chief Engineer in order to move in with the First Officer, shortly after April's promotion.

Judging from the murderous expression on Lt. Aneesh Patel's face, the break up did not sit well with the Chief Engineer at all.

_Humans_, Skon thought wearily. Such complications were unavoidable when dealing with such an emotionally infantile species – how they had managed to progress as far they had continued to astound him.

Unfortunately, such complications only made his present mission all the more precarious. Shortly after the Empire joined the war, Admiral Paris made the strategically dangerous choice of dividing his assault fleet into two distinct task forces.

Task Force Alpha - the bulk of Paris' fleet – was conducting anti-shipping strikes deep inside Minbari territory and landing amphibious MACO forces on remote Minbari outposts. By harassing enemy shipping, disrupting their jump gate network, and gaining a toehold in their space, Admiral Paris was hoping to throw the Minbari war effort into chaos and their political leadership into a panic.

Task Force Beta – the smaller force of which the _George Bush_ was a part – was assigned to bolster key EarthForce fleet elements and aid in their hasty counter-offensive against the Minbari.

The overall strategy was a holding action designed to buy time, to hold the Minbari forces at bay until Starfleet could arrive in full force.

_A mission that is difficult enough without my own officers sniping at each other over petty affairs._

Heading off yet another skirmish between Patel and April, Skon turned toward Major Mbuto to redirect the meeting. "Given our current condition, what sort of support can EarthForce lend?" _Can we hold out until the tug arrives?_

Mbuto frowned, fully understanding the alien's underlying question. "The locals have detailed two of their _Nova_-class Dreadnaughts and a squadron of fighters to cover us until then."

Her lips twisted in a sour grin. "If we use our sensors to augment the old sensors we've already given them, I suppose they _might_ prove adequate." Her tone betrayed her lack of confidence in their local "brethren." It was common knowledge how badly out-matched EarthForce had been before the Empire arrived. Given their weakness, it was hard to believe they were even human.

In Mbuto's eyes, they weren't – the Earth Alliance was just another third-rate power that the Empire found it useful to employ. _For the moment._ "Even with **their** tubs, we should be reasonably secure until the Starfleet tug gets here. The front lines have stabilized, and the unusual gravimetric interference from the planet below should prevent the aliens from 'jumping' in on us."

_And if the aliens do strike, we can always use the locals as cannon fodder to shield us._

Skon merely nodded – an adopted human gesture – acknowledging Mbuto's assessment. "Very well. I expect a progress report from all department heads by 1400 hours. Dismissed." Skon shifted his eyes to his first officer as his staff gathered to leave. "Mr. April, a moment."

The young Welshman dutifully stiffened. "Sir."

"I will be retiring to my quarters for the next hour – you have the bridge."

"Aye sir."

Skon's cold stare imperceptibly hardened. "Short of a warp core breach, a general invasion by the Klingons, or the ship getting sucked into a black hole, I do not wish to be disturbed under **any** circumstances."

"Yes sir."

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Argot Lorei hoped the coming of night would slow the Earther armored advance.

It did, but Human artillery lashed her _telor_ of Minbari warriors in their trenches and holes. Nobody talked about artillery much, but it was a worse killer than PPG fire. Staying down could keep you out of the way of PPG rounds; a human "shell," crude as they were, could come down anywhere.

In spite of the shelling, she snatched ten minutes of sleep here, twenty there, so that when the sun rose, she was merely weary instead of keeling over from exhaustion.

If the Humans felt weary, they never showed it. Their armored vehicles growled forward even before dawn.

Lorei looked in vain for Minbari armor or air cover to throw them back.

As she suspected, Minbari air cover had been swallowed by the naval battle raging above.

As for the Minbari armor…

Apparently, the Humans were using a new weapon that Minbari warriors fearfully called "torches." Whereas most Earther artillery was fairly primitive – chemical rockets and shrapnel charges – this _new_ ordnance burst in a blinding flash of light and boasted far greater range, a much wider kill zone, and completely vaporized everything in its path.

Fortunately, the Earthers had exhausted those new rounds in a matter of hours.

Unfortunately, they had already annihilated most of the Minbari armored units by then anyway – and they still had plenty of the old shells left.

An ion cannon set one enemy machine on fire. A mine exploded another. The last rockets her _talor_ had stopped a couple more.

But most of the green-gray metal monsters kept coming, with green-clad EarthForce GROPOs loping along between them.

With the last of their anti-armor ordnance exhausted, she ordered her warriors to fall back, firing at enemy infantryman as they ran. She had no idea if she herself had actually hit anyone, but she made the Shadow-spawn Humans hit the dirt. Even slowing them down felt like a victory.

Once, sprawled behind what was left of a stone fence, she saw her nephew Semaj on his belly not far away. The little bo…_the young warrior_…nodded back at her grimly. They were both still fighting, even if they were retreating. Lorei looked around for Draco but didn't see him. She dearly hoped her clan mate hadn't stopped an Earther PPG bullet for their people…

_What in Valen's name?_

On the battlefield, an upright man was a prodigy. An upright man in ceremonial garb seemed like a hallucination.

The officer who came forward wore polished black armor and a flowing silk cape, a silver handled sword belted to the spotless apparition's belt and a _melshut_-handled She'enn PPG in his right hand…

_Shai Alyt Tokkal?_

_Shai Alyt Tokkal, fighting at the front line? Shai Alyt Tokkal, fighting like a common pikeman? Like a crazy-brave pikeman?_

Lorei supposed it was possible. She'd heard some bizarre rumors about Tokkal. A Warrior Chieftain who actually **enjoyed** fighting for its own sake was actually a rare breed…

But however magnificent he looked, he sounded like her own training argot had during her own basic training. "Come on, you stinking, cowardly _narala_!" he roared. "Drive these shadow-spawn back!!"

Then the madman fired his PPG toward the advancing Humans and ran _forward_.

Lorei cursed. "GET MOVING!!" she shrieked urgently. "If anything happens to the Shai Alyt, you'll _**wish**_ the Humans blew your bone crests off! MOVE!!"

Even as she screamed, she moved forward to protect the crazy Shai Alyt. If anything happened to Tokkal, the unit that let it happen would be deeply shamed.

"Incoming!" Draco shouted.

Lorei sighed with relief—_he wasn't hurt after all._

Then she heard him add, "Hit the dirt, Shai—"

Lorei missed the rest, hugging the ground immediately. She knew what that rising, hateful scream in the air was, whether Shai Alyt Tokkal did or not….

The shell burst in midair, showering the area with deadly shrapnel that tore up trees and shredded flesh.

But none of it touched Tokkal.

Certain madmen were supposed to be able to walk through the worst danger without getting scratched. As far as Lorei was concerned, Tokkal qualified. You had to be insane to stay on your feet when you heard Human artillery coming in.

But if you did it, and if by some miracle you lived through it, you could pull a lot of warriors with you. Lorei and the warriors near her had started forward to keep Shai Alyt Tokkal from getting himself killed. When they saw he hadn't, they kept going forward to share his luck – and they drove the startled GROPOs back before them. The Humans hadn't dreamt that the battered, pressured Minbari warriors trapped on Altair 4 owned this kind of resilience.

Lorei couldn't blame them. _I didn't think we did either._

Then the spell broke.

Tokkal ran up to a warrior crouched behind a rock. "COME ON, BOY!!" he roared. "We've got Shadows to kill!!"

The cowering young warrior didn't move.

Lorei was close enough to see he was gray and shaking.

_Shellshock_, she realized, not without sympathy. Sometimes, too many horrible things could accumulate over time. Then that warrior would be worthless for a while, or only good for light duty. If you let him take it easy, that same warrior usually snapped out of it after a while.

_But if you kick him while he's down, he'll shatter._

Tokkal's face darkened with fury. "HAVE YOU NO HONOR? HAVE YOU NO **SHAME**?! GET UP AND FIGHT, YOU COWARD!!"

"I-I'm s-sorry, sir," he sputtered, trembling violently now. "I'm doing my best, but—"

"No buts," Tokkal growled. "Now fight!"

Tears streamed down the young warrior's cheek. His teeth chattered. "I'm s-sorry—"

Tokkal slapped his face – forehand and backhand. When that failed to get him moving, the Shai Alyt raised his fancy _melshut_-handled PPG pistol.

"STOP!" Lorei roared furiously. She was gratified when she noticed that her rifle wasn't the only Minbari weapon pointed at Tokkal's chest. "You will not harm him."

"You wouldn't dare," he snarled back.

Lorei grinned savagely, a cold ferocity coloring her narrow face with a wolfish energy. "Pull that trigger, and it would be a pleasure," she retorted fiercely, a den mother defending her young.

Her warriors listened in astonished admiration. They'd always known Lorei wasn't afraid of the enemy. Knowing she wasn't afraid of her own Chieftain's either….**that** required a rarer brand of courage.

Nostrils flaring, Tokkal relented. "Fine. Coddle this muling coward," he ground out. "We'll see where it gets you."

Then, as if there weren't Human soldiers a few hundred yards away, he turned on his heels and stalked off. His gait would have put a Human in mind of an affronted cat.

"Th-Th-Thank you," the young warrior sputtered.

Lorei bathed him in a warm maternal grin. "Don't worry about it. That arrogant blowhard comes up here for half an hour and thinks he's a hero."

She sniffed disdainfully. "Let him **stay** in the line for **weeks** at a stretch like us and see how he likes it. Being brave is one thing; **staying** brave while all kinds of _naral _comes down on you day after day…that's **a lot** tougher."

"I-I'll try to go forward," her shell-shocked clansman said.

Lorei chuckled good-naturedly. "Don't worry about it," she repeated. "We won't be advancing again for a while," she added dryly.

Then she raised her voice: "Everybody dig in! The Earthers will hear of our advance and hit us with everything they've got!"

Sure enough, Human artillery started coming in. Lorei hoped the Earthers didn't follow up the bombardment with armor. If they did, she knew they would have to retreat. She didn't think they could hold the line they'd been in before Tokkal brought them forward, either. If they'd had armor support of their own, maybe, but one Shai Alyt in a silk cape didn't make up for what was missing.

Unfortunately, Human armor did storm their position. Lorei ordered the retreat, Earther PPG bullets nipping at her warriors' heels all the way.

The only other choice was to stand and fight, dying a futile but "honorable" death.

Tokkal would have approved, but Lorei did not.

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"_You have taken a great risk in contacting me."_

"A calculated risk only. Given the stakes of my proposal, the risk seemed acceptable," Skon replied evenly to T'Pau's flickering image.

Unbeknownst to everyone outside the Admiralty and Section 31, the subspace relay beacon Starfleet had planted near the dimensional Rift on the Earth Alliance side was more than just a positional beacon – it was also a communications relay, specifically customized to relay clandestine subspace radio traffic across the Rift back into Imperial space. Though the transmitted images were fuzzy and had a several second delay, it provided Sector Command with a valuable information pipeline that Earth Alliance knew nothing about, a secret advantage which might prove useful later.

_Secret to __**nearly**__ everyone,_ Skon mentally corrected.

Captain Skon had been a loyal partisan of Admiral Paris within the ranks for many years. The Admiral had rewarded his support with access and knowledge few other Starship Captains enjoyed.

T'Pau stared back at him impassively. _"I trust your proposal has the official support of Starfleet. Or are you still capable of thinking for yourself?"_

Beneath his blank exterior, Skon's blood boiled, temper erupting to a volcanic explosion. _And what would you know about it, you sniveling child!!_ Not everyone had the luxury of playing the armchair rebel. "Starfleet is in considerable need of skilled, experienced personnel. Many such personnel are available on Vulcan with no other gainful employment available. Drafting these idle professionals for Starfleet is a logical recourse."

T'Pau's eyebrows twitched slightly – the Vulcan equivalent to a scathing glare. _"The creaking empire the Humans have built is destined to disintegrate sooner or later."_

Despite her animosity, however, she cocked her head at Skon in genuine curiosity. _"The Humans have seized too much, certainly more than they can handle any longer. I fail to see why we should sacrifice our citizens for such a flawed and corrupt regime." _

"As subjects of the Empire, it is in our interest to make it flourish."

"_For the benefit of the Humans."_

"For the benefit of us all."

He had expected T'Pau to be difficult. Indeed, he had no particular love for the Humans either. Despite his current position, Skon was well aware that he might never have been recruited by Starfleet if it had not been for the political purges and wars that created Starfleet's need for new recruits – skilled and resilient recruits.

As he rose through the ranks, Skon found it useful to accentuate the difference between himself and his contemporaries when working with Humans– he was flexible. Other Vulcans were reticent toward Humans and were slightly ashamed if they were too closely associated with them. They might tolerate the Humans, but only in the most superficial ways.

Other Vulcan officers – with few notable exceptions – _preferred_ the comfortable anonymity of the engineering ranks, willing to settle for a middling bridge assignment or an engineering post aboard Imperial warships as the highest pinnacle to which any non-human could aspire. They wore their uniforms in the same rakish manner as the Humans, favored the same Human food and drink, and even patterned their managerial style along Human lines too.

It was the grand compromise every Vulcan in Starfleet made: they wanted to carve out their niche within the Terran Empire without changing at all.

Spiritually Vulcan, they resisted Humanization of self to the point where they tried to spend as little time with the Humans as they could.

In fact, time spent off world, they knew, worked against them; those who spent a long while abroad were never again completely trusted by their fellow Vulcans, for it was believed they might have picked up some dreadful alien habits. When they returned home, they often began to atone for their years amongst the Humans by becoming even more chauvinistic than their colleagues.

The true model was always the Vulcan one.

As time progressed, Skon saw less and less logic in maintaining such an insular view.

The Humans had conquered Vulcan, and the Empire showed no sign of withering anytime soon. Indeed, Starfleet's crushing victory over the Rebellion seemed to confirm the current health and vitality of the Empire.

"If Vulcan is to thrive – or even survive – as a people and a culture, we must change and adapt to the rigors of the Empire."

"_Your exposure to the Humans has corrupted your perspective and logic,"_ T'Pau countered. _"I see no benefit in transforming our people into the Empire's chief servants as you have."_

Skon preferred to think he had successfully adapted to Vulcan's new reality.

He carefully cultivated and capitalized his connections amongst the Humans in Starfleet. Many Vulcans, he knew, had made similar connections when they served Starfleet, but upon return to Vulcan were careful not to be identified as friends of the Humans.

At an early age, Skon adopted the reverse approach. Instead of shunning Humans, he carefully cultivated his working relationships amongst the Human Starfleet officers. He had been taken up and sponsored at a relatively young age by progressive officers like Archibald Paris.

If the MACO's and the Imperial civil agencies regarded their alien subjects with indifference, Starfleet was different. Starfleet was eager to strengthen ties amongst loyal aliens. To Starfleet, Skon was a promising young engineer with leadership capabilities, capable of filling the fleet's voracious appetite for skilled technical talent it needed for it's expanding fleet.

Seeing no benefit in rising to T'Pau's bait, Skon changed tactics – his goal was to persuade, not to bludgeon. "Surely you have heard of the leeway Starfleet has been extended in granting pay and land grants in the New Territories," he prodded.

With the Klingons blocking any major expansion in their 'parent' dimension, Empress Sato was desperate to recruit subject species to fill their ranks in order to seize this new opportunity.

"The General Staff has driven a 'devil's bargain,' as the humans would say. General Picard and Admiral Paris have the Empress' formal agreement that **they** shall wield exclusive command of all military and civil power in the New Territories."

"_I fail to see how these Human machinations affect our people_."

Skon was undeterred by her skepticism. "These terms effectively grant General Picard and Admiral Paris full civil authority over all territory in the possession of the Empire's enemies: **including the right to confiscate lands and property and do with them as they wish."**

Skon tightened his jaw, frowning slightly, indicating how excited he was getting. "That means a redistribution of assets on a massive scale – for **all **personnel, especially the officers. Do you not see? Vulcans who serve the Imperial Starfleet could become major landowners overnight – or, at the very least, earn enough capital to launch commercial interests of our own, to establish our **own** power base within the Empire."

T'Pau raised a skeptical eyebrow. _"The Humans have never kept their word before. I see no reason why they would begin now."_

"The circumstances are different now," Skon insisted. "They do not have enough skilled personnel to pursue their expansionist ambitions without our assistance."

He lifted his jaw slightly. "We could use this as an opening to parlay a position in the Empire **equal **to the Humans."

T'Pau considered Skon's proposal. _"If the Humans are as vulnerable as you suggest, logic would dictate striking them now, while they are overextended."_

Although Skon's expression never changed, something about his demeanor visibly sagged. "The failure of the last Rebellion suggests otherwise," Skon remarked carefully.

While he did grudgingly respect T'Pau's leadership, she was not a military officer. It was time to face facts. "If our people rise up again and fail – which we almost certainly would – it would mean the extinction of our race. I doubt the Empire will be as merciful again."

T'Pau tightened her jaw, the inferno of rage boiling, wanting to lash out in frustration. _And where were __**you **__during the Rebellion, traitor!!_

"_Your proposal would irrevocably chain our people to the Humans."_

"Are we not chained already?" Skon replied softly.

T'Pau stared back at him stubbornly. One of the staunchest "Irreconcilables" on Vulcan, she was loathed to support anything that would aid the greedy, capricious, tyrannical barbarians that had conquered her world…

But she could not deny the underlying logic behind Skon's proposal, no matter how much she resented it. "_I shall introduce your proposal to the Council,"_ she replied flatly. _"I cannot endorse your suggestion, but I will ensure it receives a fair and impartial hearing."_

"That is all I had hoped for," Skon replied truthfully.

His shoulders relaxed, greatly relieved. While he could have asked someone else to present his proposal to the Council, Skon was well aware of T'Pau's moral leadership amongst their people. If **she** introduced a draft measure for discussion – even if she did not endorse it – her introduction of it would grant his proposal a legitimacy it might not otherwise have.

"Though we have disagreed on many occasions, I trust you know that I would never propose anything that would harm our people."

T'Pau stared back impassively. _"That remains to be seen. Good health and safe journey."_

Skon raised his hand in salute, using the forbidden gesture. "Live long and prosper."

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"Preserving our very lives and prosperity depends on driving the Shadow-spawn Humans back!" Satai Morann declared.

"Preserving Life and Prosperity would be better served by ending this pointless conflict," Satai Zakati retorted bitterly. "Our people have lost sight of what started the war in the first place." While the Human terrorist action that killed Dukhat was inexcusable, the current conflict had absolutely **nothing** to do with that horrible event.

"If we propose peace now, the Humans will regard it as a sign of weakness," Morann said resolutely, the wrinkled old Warrior glaring at his Worker Caste colleague. _What could a petty merchant possibly understand about the realities of war!_

"Morann is right," Satai Delenn asserted firmly, frowning angrily. "We **must** stay the course and present a united front, or we will be fighting these barbarians on the streets of Minbar!"

Zakati glared back with equal ferocity. "We've destroyed over half their fleet and occupy a huge swathe of Earther territory. They're already contained."

"That was what you said after our retribution of Dukhat's death," Delenn pointed out. "The Humans have proven their barbarity since."

Zakati could only grit his teeth.

Unfortunately, Delenn's rebuttal held more than a grain of truth.

In the immediate wake of Dukhat's death after the disastrous First Contact with the Humans, the Gray Council voted to launch a retaliatory strike on the Earther base in the Jericho System by a 5-4 margin, with Satai Delenn casting the tie-breaking vote.

After the offending Human ships and their base were destroyed, Satai Zakati then swung a similarly slender 5-4 vote to **end** hostilities with the Humans, declaring Minbari Honor satisfied.

Unfortunately, it was at **that** moment that Earth Alliance politics came into play.

Outraged by the loss of their Jericho base and still cocky over their victory in the Dilgar War, the EarthForce Joint Chiefs of Staff urged a counter-strike. Eager to demonstrate Earth's military might, the Chiefs urged the President to authorize an attack against a Minbari mid-range military base at Sh'Lekk Tha.

President Elizabeth Levy had been elected only a month earlier, emerging from a bruising presidential campaign where opponents hammered Levy for being weak on security issues, harping on her lack of military experience.

Eager to prove herself "Tough on Defense," President Levy quickly agreed to the Joint Chiefs' proposal to strike back with a fleet of forty starships and destroy the Minbari base, thus proving to the Minbari that Earth Alliance was powerful and force the Minbari to the bargaining table from a position of strength.

The Earth Alliance Senate, just as eager to demonstrate their patriotic credentials to the voters, dutifully authorized the use of force by a crushing 277-23 margin.

Unfortunately, that action had the unintended consequence of shattering Satai Zakati's fragile peace majority in the Gray Council.

The ensuing military action was the first major battle of the Earth-Minbari War.

The Earth fleet entered the Minbari star system of Sh'Lekk Tha and slowly entered weapon range of a waiting Minbari fleet. The Minbari fleet consisted only of twelve Sharlin War-Cruisers, to the Earth Alliance's forty starships, which consisted of Hyperion Heavy Cruisers and Nova Dreadnoughts.

Despite being well within range of the Minbari's weapons, the Minbari Sh'Lekk Tha fleet allowed the Earth vessels to close into range and fire the first shot.

The battle lasted twelve seconds.

In those twelve seconds, the Minbari destroyed every one of the attacking Earth vessels, allowing only one fighter to survive, so it could return home to tell her people of their impending doom…

But that doom seemed no closer now than it did then – and the Minbari Federation was spending itself into insolvency to support this ruinous war effort in the meantime.

"The time has come for a serious peace initiative," Zakati stubbornly insisted. "Perhaps another covert diplomatic gesture…"

"Like the last one?" Satai Coplann snapped. Earlier in the war, a secret attempt at peace talks **had** been tried, using a Narn intermediary. Unfortunately, someone wished the war to continue, and the Minbari Ranger negotiating the peace was killed in a mysterious attack that ruined the meeting. "Those animals were so eager to continue killing that they sabotaged their own peace talks!"

Zakati frowned at the humorless old priest. "We have no proof that it was the humans."

Though he would never say so aloud, Zakati suspected that a fanatic from the Warrior Caste was a more likely suspect. _Anyone who makes a profession of killing can't be entirely sane._

"We have no proof it **wasn't** the Humans, either."

Zakati nearly swore.

But he did not give up. If anything, the old labor leader had grown even more stubborn with age. "When he first founded this Gray Council, Valen gifted us with far more than just a governing body," Zakati pointed out. "He also gave us the Tablet of Rights – the basis of our modern legal codes. Is not the principle of 'Innocent Until Proven Guilty' a central tenet of our laws? How can we abandon one of our most central principles by automatically presuming their guilt?"

Delenn sighed. While she grudgingly respected Zakati – chronologically the oldest, longest serving member of the Gray Council – he was often prone to romantic, impractical arguments. "Valen established those laws to govern **Minbari**," she pointed out. "We cannot apply our laws to an alien culture that does not recognize our values," she explained patiently.

"The presumption of innocence and the notion of fair trial and fair play is central to who we are," Zakati countered. "When implementing policy, we turn our back on our own principles at our peril."

Morann snorted. "This whole argument is a waste of time!" He turned toward the gnarled Worker Caste Satai with open disdain. "What makes you think the Humans are even capable of understanding such notions? From what we know of Earth history, their world has been torn by bloody sectarian violence from the beginning of their civilization – their culture is built on warfare and hate. Now they are threatening to spread the violence of their culture across the galaxy!"

"They resist out of fear," Zakati countered. "Some of our advance units have intercepted some of their media broadcasts. They seem to believe that we are planning to annihilate their species."

"That's ridiculous," Satai Coplann scoffed. "Just Earther propaganda to justify their aggression to the other races. After all, we've never struck any of their civilian targets."

Satain Morann's expression darkened. "Not that it ever stopped the Humans from doing so," he grumbled.

Human terror tactics – from faked distress calls to suicide attacks with civilian assets – were completely alien to Minbari notions of civilized warfare. As a caste society, war was the sole occupation of the all-volunteer Warrior Caste, and no other.

The Earth notion of total war – where their **entire society** was mobilized for a conflict – was just further evidence of how dangerous they were.

Seeing Zakati bristle at Morann's remark, Delenn offered the old Worker a sympathetic look. "When the Earth military has been defeated, perhaps we might salvage their society, even incorporate them into our own federation as a protectorate after a brief occupation."

Zakati's hairless brows knitted together in concern. "You haven't heard a word I've said. None of you have."

His fellow castmate, Satai Ugora, shook his head and tried to reassure him. "The current setbacks are only temporary, my friend. The Earther's have only produced a handful of those new ships, and they cannot sustain this war for long."

"If we stay the course, all will work out in the end."

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_The Circle is broken. Chaos reigns. Order must be restored._

**Adding Uncertainty to Chaos betrays Order.**

_The Young Ones know not what they are facing._

**Light always pierces the Dark.**

_If the Dark of space is infinite, than no single Light can pierce it alone._

**HERESY!**

_TRUTH!_

The communal mind twittered nervously. As Masters of Order, Vorlon society was unaccustomed to such rancorous debate. Disorder and disputes were solved through discussion, through study, through meticulous planning.

Unfortunately, the unexpected arrival of the Dark Humans had spoiled all of their best laid plans.

**The Light will prevail.**

_Only many stars can illuminate the Night._

**If the brightest Light is extinguished, then the Night shall reign forever.**

The Vorlons were completely unprepared to intervene. They were still bound by the Rules of Engagement that had governed their Cold War with the Shadows for the last ten thousand years.

If they provided the Young Ones with weapons, the Shadows would do the same for the Others.

If they sent ships to fight, the Shadows would do the same for the Others.

If Vorlon and Shadow warships ever fired on each other, even by accident…

Armageddon. What the Humans of this universe called "MAD": Mutually Assured Destruction.

**Kosh** was unwilling to risk escalating this contest into an all out struggle.

_Kosh _saw no other alternative but intervention – the Young Ones needed help.

**The Light must remain constant.**

Overruled, _Kosh_ fumed privately. _This Light burns dimly. _

Nonetheless, Kosh had no alternative but to monitor the situation closely and hope the Darkness might leave some room for the Light to penetrate.

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Ambassador Riker sighed, slumping heavily into her Corinthian leather chair.

After dealing with the EA officials with their inflated egos and delusions of grandeur, she spent the rest of her day meeting the alien ambassadors. Collecting data, assessing their respective strengths and vulnerabilities, accumulating data on their stockpile of natural resources…Starfleet had recently become interested in acquiring large deposits of something called Quantium-40.

Sipping her snifter of Scotch, she was quite ready to unwind and call it a day.

Thus, she was understandably perturbed when Sanjay burst through the office doors, smiling very widely.

_Horny goat – can't he at least wait a couple hours?_ "Yes?" she glared.

"Ah! Ambassador – if you can spare a moment -- there's someone here I think you'd enjoy meeting."

He gestured for the MACO guard at the door to allow a visitor to enter.

The visitor was an old man – he looked human -- with a shock of gray hair and contrastingly dark, bushy eyebrows and an equally dark bushy mustache. Unlike the other EA officials she had met, he was dressed in a dark, bulky sweater and a comfortable pair of khaki slacks – the man looked more like a kindly grandfather than he did a bureaucrat, politician, or lobbyist.

Sanjay's plastic smile never shifted as he introduced the visitor to her. "John Smith, I present Ambassador Lisa Riker of the Terran Empire. Ambassador Riker, Mr. John Smith."

Lisa barely hid the glare she threw at Sanjay. She didn't have any further appointments scheduled, and simply escorting a stranger in for an impromptu meeting was highly irregular.

The kindly-looking old man strolled casually over to the cabinet and picked up a crystal bottle. Uncorking the crystal top, he sniffed appraisingly. "Glenfiddich. May I?"

At Lisa's quizzical nod, he poured the dark amber liquid into a glass and took a sip, grimacing appreciatively. "Nice finish."

Sanjay just smiled and bowed his way out of the office, closing the doors behind him and leaving Lisa alone with Mr. Smith.

Lisa looked at the closed doors and then at the old man with suspicion. She disguised her annoyance behind the plastic smile she used for diplomatic greetings. "I'm sorry, but my assistant neglected to mention who you were with?"

The kindly old man shrugged, grinning absently. "Who am I with?" he repeated rhetorically, shrugging. "Who decides what skirt lengths are in fashion in the Spring? Who decides that 'red' means stop and 'green' means go? Who controls whether the stock market rises or falls? I'm with **those** people."

"Uh _huh._" Lisa's smile slipped a fraction. _What is this guy, an escaped mental patient?_

She made a mental note to discipline Sanjay later for wasting her time with this. "I'm sorry, Mr. Smith, but I'm afraid I'm running late to a prior engagement. **What do you want?**"

The old man's grin suddenly widened – he seemed terribly amused by that question.

"Actually, Madame Ambassador, it's funny you should ask…"


	5. Chapter 5

All previous disclaimers apply.

**Chapter 5**

"I'm starting to get a little worried, Bill," Javier LaForge confided to his friend. The two of them were resting across a street, leaning against a charred ground transport, watching what remained a cluster of small houses burning to the ground. By now, they were mostly embers.

"You're just starting to get worried?" Kirk jibed. "Did it just dawn on you that Coulter set off without having any resupply figured out? Oh, but I forgot," Kirk sneered, "The rich 'alien lands' would pay for the expenses of all our operations. And the locals were going to embrace us as liberators!"

He half leveled his rifle at the smoldering house. "Of course, that might have been easier if some of these trigger-happy idiots didn't shoot at everything that moved."

LaForge couldn't help but smile a little. He wasn't any fonder of most of their "compatriots" than Kirk was.

Both of them – quietly and privately, of course – had shared a laugh after four of Coulter's hired guns had been blown to shreds and another half dozen had been injured at a small temple down the road. It turned out that the damned snakeheads had left some sort of remote explosive device behind, strategically situated.

When the mob started ransacking the temple for souvenirs – _didn't those heathen snakeheads keep fancy gold and silver decorations in their churches?_ – the charges had exploded.

As punishment for that terrorist action, the contractors performed an "intensive security sweep" over the rest of the village – burning it to the ground.

But LaForge's smile faded very quickly, and he returned stubbornly to the subject. "Quit making jokes, Bill. Or have you suddenly managed to repair the food resequencer in the last couple days?"

Kirk sucked his teeth, idly watching a group of men raping one of the two Minbari women that managed to escape the inferno intact. That was the young one. The older of the two – presumably her mother – was huddled over the corpse of a middle-aged fat man lying in the dust some ten yards away. She was weeping softly, seemingly oblivious to everything else around her.

"No, I haven't," Kirk admitted. "But we'll find what we need at that bigger town up the road…ahh, Ingata I think it's called." He nodded toward the corpse. "He sounded pretty sincere. I figure we can pick those bastards clean before the jarheads get here."

The military was always a nuisance; business ran more smoothly without their interference. Luckily for them, this colony was small enough and remote enough that neither the Minbari fleet or Starfleet thought the place was worth occupying – yet.

Gloomily, LaForge studied the body. Other than his bone crest, it was impossible any longer to tell much about the alien. His eyes had been plucked out and his nose cut off, along with his genitals and his hands. After the group that had been torturing him at Coulter's command to get information was done, there hadn't been any point in keeping him alive.

_You'd have to offer money to get anyone at the Orion slave markets to take him,_ LaForge thought bitterly. So, the contractors had amused themselves for a time before he finally bled to death.

Coulter might have told them to stop wasting time, but she'd left right after the snakehead had told them about the food storehouses up the road.

_Of course, whether they'd have listened to her or not is another question._

Except for the Vulcan soldiers under V'Las' command, 'Coulter's army' was to discipline what a tornado was to decorum.

_Well….maybe it isn't __**quite**__ that bad._

Most of the contractors were formally employed by one private security firm or another. Even if the lines of authority were loose and informal, they existed at least on that level.

As was demonstrated when one of the senior contractors grabbed the current rapist by the scruff of his neck and hauled him off the alien girl. "Cut it out!" he snapped.

There was something nearly comical about the look on the rapist's face.

"Just relax, guys. We'll be fucking her all the way back to Orion," the 'officer' said, in a friendlier tone, lifting the man to his feet. "We want her pregnant by the time we put her up on the block – but we gotta have the doc treat her to make her fertile first. Besides, we have to get moving, before we miss the next transport."

That was standard procedure for slavers. LaForge had served two years on the crew of an Orion slave ship. That's where he'd first met Bill Kirk, who'd been an officer of the ship.

Even though the interstellar slave trade had been illegal in the Terran Empire since 2107, it still flourished under the Orion Syndicate, despite the risk. Mostly, of course, for the profits involved: but there was also the side benefits too. Young alien females – especially the most aesthetically pleasing humanoid ones – would be segregated from the rest of the cargo and raped all the way back to Orion.

Entertainment for the crew during the voyage – and a pregnant female was worth more on the market when they arrived. A "Two-for-one" deal for the buyer – and, more important, proof that the female was good breeding stock.

Grudgingly, the little crowd around the alien girl obeyed their commander. Two of them hauled her to her feet, one of them taking the time to yank her torn and dirty gown back down to her knees. The girl's eyes seemed vacant until, wandering, they fell on the corpse lying in the dirt.

Then she let out a wail before one the men holding her slapped her face.

"What do we do with this one?" another contractor asked, pointing with his disruptor at the older woman still clutching the corpse.

The commander shrugged. "Leave her. She's too old to bring much, and we won't have enough food until we replace the resequencer."

The man who asked the question mirrored his boss' shrug – right before he shot the older Minbari woman through the head.

The girl wailed again, and got another slapping.

"Running low on ammo, too," the commander grumbled sourly, although he didn't carry the chastisement further.

LaForge didn't blame him. Killing the bonehead had been pointless, but control over a crew like this was always a chancy thing. As excited and fired up as they were, Coulter's army had been killing, burning, raping, and torturing anyone they ran across almost since they crossed into Minbari space.

Coulter had barely been able to keep them in check until after they passed out of the "other" Earther's territory – apparently, their Earth Alliance cousins were far more squeamish about such things.

But that was just the way expeditions like this ran, as a rule. V'Las' Vulcans were under better discipline, but Coulter wasn't so much leading this army as she was trying to half steer a raft through turbulent rapids.

"Damn fools," Kirk muttered. "You wouldn't catch me heading off without enough manpower around to handle these boneheads. I don't care if I found a pot of gold; they'll be looking for blood now."

LaForge grunted his agreement. What concerned him, however, was that he was pretty sure a lot of the contractors in Coulter's army weren't going to have the same sense. This was likely to be just the first of many small groups peeling away from the main expedition once they'd gotten their hands on some loot.

Not all of the contractors who'd come with Coulter were looking to secure a political appointment or develop real estate. Such lofty goals required some money – access to low interest loans, at any rate – and plenty of these "security contractors" were little more than legalized pirates.

But there was nothing LaForge could do about it, so he levered himself onto his feet, using his rifle as a brace. "Come on, we may as well catch up with Coulter."

"Our very own Joan of Arc," Kirk sneered.

But he was getting to his feet also. There wasn't really any alternative, no matter what qualms and reservations they were both starting to have. The only real safety in this region was aboard a ship at warp – apparently, the local aliens were unable to even detect them at such speeds.

Although Starfleet had disabled the local "jump gates" and "jump beacons," everyone remained suspicious of how long that would delay alien reinforcements. Hyperspace was an unknown commodity for most Imperials. If they stuck around for any length of time, a Minbari patrol might pop in and strike back: and Minbari warships were said to carry **a lot** of firepower.

_Let Starfleet and the Jarheads tangle with 'em._ Kirk thought derisively. After this trip, he'd finally have enough saved to buy that beach house on Risa he had always wanted.

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**Ingata, One Month Later**

A private jogged up to Harlan McCoy with a half-grim, half-sick expression on his face. "Sarge, they found Don. Boneheads caught him. It ain't pretty."

McCoy swore. "This is worse than Andoria, all right." Gunnery Sergeant McCoy had spent most of the Rebellion in the suburbs of the capital city, exchanging small arms fire with stubborn insurgents. Most people there hated Humans, but a fair-sized minority didn't. Even some of the ones who hated Humans understood they weren't all minions of Evil.

Here on the rim of Minbari territory, however, none of the locals seemed to have got the news. For some reason, the aliens here reacted to Humans as if they were demons from hell. Some of them ran, while the rest tried to fight back – by any means necessary.

"What are we going to do, Sarge?" the private asked.

McCoy spat. "Hell, if the yellow bastard who did that to Don doesn't turn himself in, we shoot the son of a bitch."

"Yeah!" the private said savagely.

"But I can't do it on my own," Harlan warned. "My ass'd be in a sling if I tried. But I bet Captain Unipeg can."

Jerry Unipeg was newly in command of the company, which had two CO's wounded on back-to-back days before he arrived. Unless he was unlucky, Harlan didn't think he'd be easy to kill. Captain Unipeg was tough and skinny, with a thin, dark mustache and gray eyes that seemed to see everywhere at once. He didn't mind having a noncom head up a platoon, which gave him another good mark in Harlan's book.

When Harlan found him, he was field-stripping and cleaning his EM rifle.

He looked up before Jake got very close. You couldn't get close to him without his knowing. "What can I do for you, Sergeant?"

"Damn Bonehead bushwackers just murdered one of my men, sir," Harlan replied. "Murdered him and did nasty things to the body after he was dead." Harlan's expression hardened. "I _hope_ after, anyway."

Unipeg's mouth was never wide and giving. It tightened more than usual now. "What do you want to about it?" he asked. "What do you want _me_ to do about it?"

"Round up suspects, sir," Harlan answered. "We may not make 'em stop this garbage, but we can make it expensive for 'em."

Without looking at the weapon he was working on, Unipeg reassembled it – his hands didn't need his eyes to know what they were doing. "You think ten's enough, or do you want twenty?"

"Twenty," Harlan growled. "This isn't the first man we lost like this. If their warriors shoot us, it's one thing. We shoot them, too. But these cock suckers….They think no one can touch 'em because they're in civilian clothes."

Captain Unipeg nodded his understanding. According to his briefings, the Minbari were **supposed** to be a caste society, where **only** the warriors were supposed to fight.

_So why the devil are their __**civilians**__ harassing us? _

In fact, his men had even gone out of their way to be civil…_Besides, the blasted merc's already cleaned out all the good stuff anyway._

Unipeg just chalked it up to bad intelligence – _worthless spooks. _

These Boneheads were nothing but wild dogs. If this was how they behaved, than this was how he'd treat them.

"We'll do it," Captain Unipeg said. "Your people up for serving a discipline detail, if it comes to it? Chances are it will, you know."

"Yes sir," Harlan said without hesitation. "If it's alien, they'll shoot it."

"Old people? Small children?" Unipeg persisted. Between Coulter's security sweep and the MACO's detaining everyone of military age for questioning, the pickings left in the settlement would be slim.

"Any Bonehead suspect we take, they'll shoot." Harlan McCoy said confidently. "They know damn well the aliens'd slit our throats if they had the chance."

Rounding up volunteers was the easiest thing in the universe. By then, the whole company had heard about what happened to their comrade.

Had Captain Unipeg given the order, they wouldn't have settled for arresting suspects – they would have wiped the entire place off the face of the planet.

The town might have held five thousand people before the war started – fewer now, of course. The buildings in the center of town – those still standing – were weathered but sturdy. Slopes north of the town square were given over to crops, which Coulter's mercenaries had already stripped bare; those to the south held houses.

The MACO's formed a perimeter around the houses. Then they went through and seized twenty men (oddly, most of the women seemed missing), all under eighteen or over fifty. They also killed one old woman who threw a rock at one of the MACOs who grabbed her grandson.

Once the suspects were taken, Captain Unipeg assembled the rest of the townsfolk in the square.

They stared at him with sullen hatred, only slightly tempered by the snouts of the field lasers staring at them from sandbagged revetments.

"We had a soldier murdered by insurgents," Unipeg told the locals. "That kind of cowardice runs against the laws of war and civilization. We will not tolerate such barbaric acts of terrorism. If the killer doesn't come forward within twenty-four standard hours, we will execute these suspects for that crime."

"I did it." A stooped old man hobbled forward. "You can shoot me if you must shoot someone."

"What did you do to the body after it was dead?" Harlan asked.

The man blinked. "I spit on the rotting corpse. Then I went home."

"You're a liar. You're brave, but you're a liar," Harlan said. "Get back where you belong."

Crestfallen, the man shuffled back into the crowd.

"Anybody else?" Captain Unipeg asked.

Silence.

He consulted his watch. "All right. The clock is ticking."

One of the hostages started to blubber. "You have no business doing this to me," he said. "I'm just a clerk! I've never done anyone harm!"

"Too bad," jeered one of Harlan's MACOs. "You wasted a hell of a chance, then, didn't you?"

"This won't bring your soldier back," another hostage, a priest, said.

Harlan McCoy just shrugged. "It'll make you people think twice. And even if it don't, it pays you people back."

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Sergeant McCoy slept dreamlessly until sunup, and woke with nothing worse than a stiff back. He didn't remember being so tight and sore during the last war. Scratching his belly, he noticed that seemed a little larger these days, too.

No, he wasn't a young man anymore.

_Which isn't so bad._

He was closing in on his twenty years of service. Between his pension and his wife's salary, he was sure that his family would be okay financially. And even if it wasn't, his brother-in-law had offered to take him on as a partner in his plumbing-supply business in Louisville after he left the service.

In any case, Harlan was looking forward to seeing his boys grow up.

"Anybody come forward?" he asked, opening a ration pack.

"Get serious, Sarge," answered one of the soldiers, who was already eating. "Those Boneheads might be brave enough to stab a man in the back, but they won't put their own necks on the line when it counts."

"That one geezer who tried to volunteer had balls," Harlan commented.

"Sure. But the point is, he didn't really do anything," she retorted, frowning. "The guy who did sneak around, he's still sneaking."

"He must be pretty sneaky, too," McCoy observed. "If the people with kin who got taken hostage knew who he was, you have to figure somebody'd rat on him to save a husband or a son or a brother."

The MACO only shrugged. "Hasn't happened yet – that's all I can tell you."

As the deadline approached, the MACOs paraded the suspects out to the town square. Some MACOs had set a post in the ground in front of the scorched temple. Captain Unipeg ordered the townsfolk out to witness the "enforcement action."

"This is what you get when civilians try to fight a war," he announced, gesturing to Harlan McCoy. "Will you do the honors?"

"Yes, sir. Don was in my platoon." Harlan waited until the MACOs had tied the first suspect to the pole. Then he gestured to the men in the discipline detail.

"READY!" They brought up their rifles. "AIM!" The riflemen drew a bead on the white paper pinned on the alien suspect. "FIRE!"

A dozen rifles barked in unison. The suspect slumped against his bonds. Blood poured from his wounds. He writhed, but not for long. In the crowd, a couple old women screamed. Another one fainted. So did a man.

The MACOs cut down the dead suspect and marched another one, a young one, over to take his place. The youth's shout of "ENTILZA!!" was cut off abruptly by the eruption from the discipline detail.

More screams rang from the crowd. A girl about his age tried to charge the MACOs. Not too roughly, they kept her from hurting them or herself, then shoved her back to her relatives. The locals held on to her to make sure she didn't try again.

Most of the suspects died as well as men could. Four or five wept and begged.

It did them no good.

Harlan shouted, "READY!...AIM!...FIRE!" over and over again.

Finally, the Humans cut down the last bloody body.

"Bury your dead," Captain Unipeg ordered the townsfolk. "And remember: chances are whoever **made us** do this is still right here with the rest of you. But he kept quiet, **so this is what you get."**

Captain Unipeg admonished the crowd, shaking his finger at them for emphasis. "If you leave us alone, we won't harm you. But if you break the laws of war, you'll pay. You have paid."

The temple square stank of scorched meat and blood and feces from the dead bodies…

It stank of fear, too; Harlan had smelled that smell too many times to have any doubts about that. But for once, he _didn't_ smell his own fear. _This'll teach the bastards._

He made sure he patted each marine from the discipline detail on the back. "You did good," he told them. "That wasn't easy, doing what you guys did. I'm proud of you."

"Boneheads had it coming," growled one of the MACOs. Several other marines nodded.

But another man said, "You're right, Sarge – it wasn't easy. Even though they're only aliens, they were still just…people, sort of." He lowered his eyes. "I did this once, but I don't think I want to do this again."

"All right, Kim. You won't then," Harlan promised. "If you've got any booze, take a knock. I'll look the other way. You earned it."

"I don't, Sarge," Private Kim said mournfully.

"Don't worry about it, Jeff," another marine said. "I got a pretty good idea where you can get your hands on some."

Harlan turned his back so they wouldn't see him smile.

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Ellaenn was Ingata's second city.

The moon's first city – also called Ingata - had been all but destroyed during Coulter's initial security sweep and the MACO's occupation.

Even while occupied by the Dark Humans, the Worker Caste made efforts to repair it, but the damage and subsequent pollution were just too great and the settlement had been abandoned.

If it was possible for a town to be in worse condition than Ellaenn, Harlan McCoy did not want to know about it.

The whole air around his MACO's seemed thick and heavy. The basic atmosphere of Ingata was close enough to Earth standard to render breathing masks unnecessary, but just different enough to provoke a general awkwardness.

The atmosphere at Ellaenn was worse from the earlier suborbital bombardment. Thick black smog hung everywhere. Visibility was reduced sharply. Everything smelt of rotting flesh. 

Half a mile closer to town, another defended temple held up the advancing MACOs.

As soon as they went to ground, two Minbari hovercraft – roughly the size of pickup trucks – showed up. They stayed at extreme range and blazed away with makeshift PPGs and homemade pipe bombs. Most of their bullets were bound to go wild. A few, though – a few would wound or kill.

Somebody with an anti-armor field laser made a great shot (or just a lucky one) and set one of the hovercraft on fire. The other craft zoomed up alongside, picked up the guerillas who got out, and roared off.

Despite all the EM bolts and mortars the MACOs sent toward it, it got away.

The MACOs fought their way into Ellaenn proper a couple of hours later. The Minbari fighters didn't try to hold the town with the same fanatical determination the Romulans showed over every inch of ground at Ursula Minor, the bloodiest campaign in MACO history.

But Ingata had a hell of a lot more inches than Ursula Minor did. The defenders headed north, toward the larger settlements there. They would make another stand somewhere else. Only at the spaceport and the Temple did they put up much of a fight.

The Boneheads wrecked the terminal at the spaceport, blew up the building, and escaped.

The Temple was a different story. The insurgents who holed up there didn't run and didn't give up. The only person who got out of the burning, battered building was a youth about twelve years old. He'd lost the last joint of his left little finger. Otherwise, he didn't seem badly hurt.

At least, not physically. Even Sergeant McCoy was unnerved by the deadly stillness in his eyes, even as his robes were spattered with dark red, almost black spots. His trousers were stiff to the knees from where he had knelt in his kinsmen's blood. Hardened as he was, McCoy wasn't sure why his men had let the kid just sit there so long, soaked in his dead family's blood?

"What's your name, kid?" McCoy asked as he bandaged the boy's hand.

"Lennier, of the Third Fain of Ch'domo." The boy looked at him, again with that deadly calm and no tears. "You must be an Earther, a servant of Darkness."

"Yeah, well, I love you too." McCoy figured the kid was just in shock. He pulled a squashed chocolate bar out of his pocket. "Here. Want it?"

"Thank you," Lennier said gravely. "But you're still a servant of Darkness, _Human_." He spat the name as a curse, a talisman of misery and evil.

The grizzled sergeant's cracked lips widened in a genuine smile. "You better believe it, you little bastard," McCoy replied, not without pride.

000000000000000000000

_To:725__th__ Battalion HQ, 5__th__ Brigade, 197__th__ Infantry Division_

_From:42__nd__ MACO Co, Capt. Gerald Unipeg, CO_

_21 insurgents neutralized at Ingata._

_Ingata pacified, Ellaenn occupied. Resistance light._

_All quiet on the Ingata front._


End file.
